


The One Where Sherlock Sleeps With Molly

by keeptheotherone



Series: The One... [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Godfather Sherlock, Humor, LLF Comment Project, Mind Palace, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Hooper/Mary Morstan Friendship, POV John Watson, POV Molly Hooper, POV Multiple, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Sherlock is Married to His Work, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptheotherone/pseuds/keeptheotherone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper once surprised Sherlock by inviting herself to dinner, then turning him down later the same day. But what if, on his last night in England, Sherlock does have "dinner" with Molly? What if he indulged because he thought it would be his last meal?</p><p>What if it isn't?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set immediately post-season three. I'm running on the assumption that John and Mary really did have a spring wedding and Mary was about six weeks pregnant at that time, and of course Magnussen's demise took place on Christmas Day. Hopefully the rest of the story timeline is self-explanatory. I had a lot of fun tagging the heck out of this, but let me know if there's anything I should delete/add. Chapters are relatively short, mostly in the 1000-1500 word range, but I will update every Wednesday :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters and settings are the invention of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. And I suppose we should thank Irene Adler for her definition of "dinner" ;)

John Watson unlocked the door to 221 Baker Street, flipped through the mail that had been shoved through the letterbox, laid Mrs. Hudson’s on the side table, and jogged upstairs to Sherlock’s flat. He came through the doorway just in time to see Sherlock Holmes throw his violin onto the sofa, shortly followed by the bow.

“Bad day?” John tossed the mail on the table that doubled as Sherlock’s desk.

“Bored.” Sherlock eyed the pockets of John’s coat.

“No.” 

“No what?”

“No, I’m not carrying my gun, and no, I won’t fetch it for you to shoot the walls. Anything in? Mary and I ate breakfast when Josie woke at five this morning.” John crossed the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“Help yourself.”

“No case?” John asked, surveying his choices. 

“Nothing worthy of my time.”

“Heard from Greg—Lestrade?”

Sherlock waved the blank screen of his phone, then dropped it back in the pocket of his dressing gown.

“Maybe there’s some new comments on the blog,” John suggested. He doubted it (the last post was eight days ago), but cooking with Sherlock underfoot was a recipe for disaster. John picked up a skillet from the rack on the wall and inspected it to confirm it really was clean before setting it on the cooker.

Ten minutes later, John’s brunch was coming along nicely when Sherlock slammed his laptop shut. 

“Nothing. No additional comments, no interesting emails.” Sherlock reappeared in the kitchen and filched a rasher.

John moved the plate away. “You’re bored, not hungry.”

“Same difference.”

Arguing with Sherlock when he was like this was pointless, so John carried his bacon sandwiches and tea into the sitting room, set them down on the table by his chair, and stared at the chaos he hadn’t noticed when he arrived. Fully half the sofa was covered with Sherlock’s attempts to entertain himself this morning: his closed laptop sat neatly in the middle; sheet music, both printed and hand-drawn with Sherlock’s careful notations, spilled over the back and arm of the sofa onto the floor; the violin and bow crisscrossed each other in one corner; wedged between a cushion and the back was the thriller Mary had bought him for Christmas; scattered between the last two issues of _Journal of Forensic Science_ and an English translation of _The Starry Messenger_ were multiple packs of cigarettes, the engraved lighter from Mycroft “compliments of Whitehall,” and two boxes of nicotine patches; and even a deck of cards striped the seat in a black-and-red solitaire pattern. 

It was the nicotine patches Sherlock reached for now, and as the sleeve of his dressing gown fell back, John noticed one long forearm already filled with flesh-colored squares.

“No,” he said, lunging for the box before Sherlock could raise it out of his reach. “No more.”

Sherlock tightened his grip on the box and jerked it close to his chest, starting a wrestling match that ended only when John stomped on Sherlock’s bare foot (in shoes) and pulled his now-unresisting hand off the package. 

“You’re going to kill yourself with these things!” John said, stuffing the remaining patches in his jeans pocket before throwing the empty box back on the sofa with its twin.

“It’s better than dying of boredom!” Sherlock limped to his chair.

John chuckled at the absence of his usual grace.

“It is not funny! Moriarty’s face appears on every screen in the country for two minutes, then nothing! Not one sighting, not one murder or crime or cover-up or consult or even _hint_ at an explanation.” Sherlock straightened both legs and flung his head back, draping his body feet beyond the chair itself. “Leaving me with noooothing to do!”

John did not bother to point out the many things Sherlock had done in the month since “the Moriarty Mystery,” as the press had not-so-cleverly named the event. Taking a large bite of his second sandwich, he picked up the newspaper that, judging from its orderly fold, Sherlock had abandoned after merely glancing at the front page.

“Why don’t you go to Bart’s, get some new body parts or something? I actually saw nothing but food in the refrigerator.” 

“Can’t. Molly’s working.”

John paused, then looked over the top of his paper. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

In a blink, Sherlock stood at the window, back towards John and hands in his trouser pockets.

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s posture didn’t change nor did he answer, and John began to piece together small idiosyncrasies of the last few weeks. Sherlock, white-lipped and wide-eyed, running from the plane to Mycroft’s car yelling Molly’s name. Molly, pale and trembling, unlocking the lab door only when she heard Sherlock’s voice and throwing herself into his arms without protest. Their first case after Sherlock’s exile, when his suggestion to stop at Angelo’s for take-away on the way to Bart’s delayed them until Molly had got off shift. Ten days ago, when Sherlock had focused on another aspect of the case and sent John to Bart’s alone—for the second time. The way Molly’s face fell, then hardened, when she didn’t see Sherlock enter the morgue behind him. And finally, the very suspicious, glaringly obvious, never-before-seen, 100% edible contents of Sherlock’s refrigerator.

John folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Sherlock? Why are you avoiding Molly Hooper?”

“I think that wall could use another smiley face, don’t you? Balance it out a bit?”

“Sherlock….”

“I could do this one exclusively in bullets. Low velocity, so they didn’t penetrate the wall completely. One silver and one yellow, that would make a nice combination, don’t you think?”

“I hid my gun.”

“I found it.”

“And the bullets?” John was not so foolish as to store both in the same place.

Sherlock glanced at him, opened his mouth, pursed it, and crossed his arms, returning to his study of the street outside.

John stood and approached his friend slowly, much the way he would a stray round of live ammunition. “Sherlock?” he said quietly. “Is there something going on between you and Molly?”

“No!”

Well, that was emphatic. And definitive. And just a bit too fast. 

“Because that would be okay, you know. If you….” He debated which word to use and decided it was best to be vague. “If you liked her.”

Sherlock said nothing—unless you counted the absence of his usual scathing dismissal at the mention of feeling or sentiment, which John thought said rather a lot. He probed carefully, as if he were separating the dead and healthy tissue in an infected wound, keen not to cause any more damage.

“ _Was_ there something going on between you and Molly?”

Sherlock left the window, cleared the morning’s failed distractions from the sofa with a sweep of one long arm, and lay down, ramrod straight, eyes closed, hands clasped together under his chin.

“Oh, no you don’t!” John grabbed his left arm and ripped off one of the five nicotine patches.

“Ouch!” Sherlock wrenched his arm away and glared.

John sat on the coffee table and faced him. “You can’t possibly have any hair left as often as you use those things.”

Sherlock gathered his dressing gown around himself and turned over.

John stared at his back for a moment, then rested his hands on his knees and stood up. “Well. I’ll just go ask Molly, then.”

“No! No, don’t—just—no.” 

John sat back down.

Sherlock, who had sat up in panic at the threat, bent over with his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his hands through his hair, positively growling with frustration. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

“We’ve all been there, mate. What happened?”

“I … stayed with her. That last night, before….”

“Well, that makes sense. Molly’s flat is one of your bolt holes, yeah?” The various ways Sherlock might have offended Molly while staying in her home were vast, but she had always been endlessly patient with Sherlock. 

“We … slept together. Euphemistically speaking.”

If John hadn’t heard it directly from Sherlock’s mouth, if he hadn’t seen Sherlock’s lips move as he heard the words, John would not have believed it. In fact, he _didn’t_ believe it—Sherlock was having him on, surely (he was bored, after all)—not until he saw the redness spreading across those cheekbones and the way Sherlock’s eyes avoided his. Still, it took John three attempts to find his voice, and that was after he regained the ability to make noise.

“You had sex with Molly Hooper?” Vague words were definitely not the best choice now. “Actual penetrative intercourse?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp, defensive.

“I—all right. Okay.” John took a deep breath, trying to adjust to this new reality. He remembered that conversation in Angelo’s over four years ago, how serious Sherlock had been as he explained he wasn’t interested in relationships, that sentiment was a defect, that he was married to his work. His work—surely he didn’t see Molly merely as an extension of that? Was that why— Or maybe— but—

There were just so _many_ ways it could have gone bad.

“Okay. So you slept with Molly, and then you left for Eastern Europe.”

“I thought I was, yes.”

“And you haven’t seen her since.”

“Except for—“

 _The day you thought she was dead, and the two of you clung to each other like life rafts_. 

“I see. Text?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Phone call? Email? I don’t know, a message through Lestrade?”

Three shakes.

It was worse than he thought. “Just to be clear, you’re telling me that you slept with a woman for the first time— Hang on, it was—“

“Yes, John, Molly and I have not been ‘getting it on’ behind everyone’s backs.”

John relaxed a little at the return of the familiar sarcasm even as Sherlock began pacing in the narrow space between the sofa and the coffee table, stepping over John’s legs with each pass.

“You slept with a woman, left her the next morning, learned Moriarty reappeared, returned to ensure her safety, and haven’t communicated with her in any way in the month since?”

“Twenty-seven days.”

“Trust me, Sherlock. Molly will consider it one. Whole. Month.” 

Sherlock pivoted and John leaned back to avoid being smacked in the head.

“I take it back. Whatever you do, _don’t_ go to Bart’s and ask Molly for body parts.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's quote of Sherlock is a quote from "His Last Vow," written by Steven Moffat.

Sherlock resumed pacing the floor in front of the sofa, unwilling to discuss his relationship—no, there was no “relationship” between him and Molly. They were colleagues, nothing more—

 _Colleagues do not indulge in the delights of the flesh, Sherlock_ , Mycroft’s voice sneered.

A single mistake, one human weakness born out of a desperate longing for home, for one night of comfort to carry him through the months leading up to his certain and solitary death, had jeopardized years of a hard-earned working relationship. This—this is why he didn’t do emotion or sentiment. As awkward as it was to have this conversation with John, Sherlock couldn’t deny the relief it brought. John would help him fix things with Molly so he had access to the lab and morgue to continue his work; John would know how to make things go back to normal.

His voice broke into Sherlock’s thoughts. “Okay, let’s think about this logically.” 

Sherlock scoffed. John ignored him.

“You were going undercover, but there was always a chance—“

“There was never a chance,” Sherlock said harshly. 

“But—you said six months.” The words were barely a breath, gone as soon as they appeared. “I asked how long, and you said six months. And then ‘who knows?’” 

Sherlock stood still with his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown and waited for John to not merely see, but to observe. It happened in stages: the shock of understanding; the horror of denial; the anger of betrayal.

“You weren’t just not coming back. You bloody bastard, you were going off to die! AGAIN!” Those words were loud enough, as was the resulting crash when the coffee table overturned as John stood up.

The two men stared at each other, less than an arm’s length apart, and Sherlock wondered if his nose was actually going to be broken this time. 

John swore viciously, kicked Sherlock’s violin out of the way (Sherlock managed to restrain his verbal protest if not his physical one, cringing as the instrument spun away and crashed into a leg of the desk), and stopped in the middle of the room, hands on his hips and head hanging down as he faced the fireplace.

When it appeared John wasn’t going to do or say anything else, Sherlock spoke up. “It was that or prison, and I couldn’t—“ 

Even now, the thought of being locked up, confined, unable to work or stimulate his mind, made him long for the drugs in a way he hadn’t since … since he met John.

“Boys! I’ll not have you destroying my furn—“ Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, staring first at the overturned coffee table, then Sherlock, then John, who still had his back turned. “Don’t go to bed angry,” she said. “And stop destroying my furniture!” The door slammed behind her.

Sherlock smirked when John’s shoulders stiffened at her insinuation, but he remained silent and still. For an unnaturally long time. 

“Mycroft actually mentioned it when we were home at Christmas. Said he had a job offer he wanted me to decline. It was—“ Sherlock licked his lips. “After Appledore, it was his final gift to me.”

John barked out a laugh, the harsh sound that meant he was not in the least amused. “‘Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.’ You two are something else, you know that?”

“I know.” At least John was facing him now, his posture not as open as usual but not aggressive, either.

“Did Molly know?”

 _His head on her breast, his hands gripping her shoulders. Her arm around his back, her other hand gently stroking his hair until his shaking stopped. Both of them ignoring the wetness transferring from his cheek to her chest_.

Sherlock swallowed. “I … think she guessed.”

John pressed his lips together, nodded. “Your brother and Molly. No one else?”

“Whoever had classified access to the project.” That wasn’t what John meant, but Sherlock liked his nose just the way it was, thank you.

John looked out the window, then turned suddenly. “Once, Sherlock—just once before you actually end up in a coffin, I want to know about it!”

He glared a moment longer, then stalked over to sit down in his chair. Sherlock relaxed and followed. Nothing in this flat was more indicative of their friendship than those two chairs facing one another. If John was willing to sit there with Sherlock, then he was willing to put this deception behind them.

“Let’s get back on point,” John said as soon as Sherlock sat down. “Knowing that you would never set foot in England again, and believing that you would be dead within six months, you spent your last night at home in the arms of Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. They had already established this.

“And Molly knew—“

“I didn’t tell her,” Sherlock said quickly, wanting to be clear that this time, Molly hadn’t been in on the secret. “We didn’t talk about it.” 

_We hardly talked at all_. Sherlock forced the memories back. _Colleagues_ , he reminded himself. They were colleagues, nothing more.

John silenced him with a look. “Molly knew, and you know she knew, and she knows you know she knew, yet even though you have both returned to England and aren’t dying—“ John paused and raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock nodded confirmation of his health— “you have neither seen nor spoken to her and have no plan for doing so.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock muttered, stung at the implied failure.

“And now you want me to fix it so you can work with her again without having to acknowledge whatever it is that happened between the two of you.”

“Yes! Yes, exactly!”

“Sherlock,” John said solemnly, “it is my sworn duty as your best friend to inform you: you’re screwed, mate.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stared at John in disbelief. “What do you mean, I’m screwed?”

“There is no possible way you can work things out with Molly without dealing with the fact that you slept with her and all that implies. And by ‘dealing with it,’ I mean talking about it,” John added. “In detail. Probably multiple times.”

Sherlock made a moue of disgust. “I want a second opinion.”

John leaned back in his chair. “You’re welcome to ask Mary, but I’m not sure you’d survive the experience.” Mary and Molly had developed a close friendship over the last few months, and John knew without asking that his wife would take exception to Sherlock’s treatment of Molly. _He_ took exception to Sherlock’s treatment of Molly. Now he thought about it, probably best not to issue that invitation for dinner….

Sherlock frowned and brought both hands together under his chin. “There must be something I can do to increase the odds of her accepting my presence.”

“Throw yourself at her feet, apologize profusely, beg for mercy, and accept whatever punishment she dishes out without question or complaint.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “That’s ridiculous.”

The anger burned hot without warning, and John leaned forward into Sherlock’s personal space. “No, what’s ridiculous is you thinking you could get away with being a first-class arse. Molly loves you. She’s loved you for a long time, Sherlock. She may have surprised you a few Christmases ago, but there is no way you didn’t know that when you decided to sleep with her, and to jerk her around like this is more than ‘not good,’ it’s just plain _wrong_. She deserves an explanation for why you’ve suddenly cut her out of your life. Actually, she deserves a hell of a lot better than you at all—“

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

John blinked. Sherlock stood at the edge of the rug without appearing to have moved.

“She deserves—I could never—Even if—“ Sherlock sputtered to a halt, closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose. “Of course she deserves better than me,” he said quietly. “You all do.”

John cleared his throat, slightly ashamed of himself. “Sherlock.” He waited for him to look at him. “Do you want something more with Molly?”

“It’s not possible. I’ve told you before, John, I’m married to my work.” 

It was a good delivery: firm and clear, voice steady, gaze direct and even. John would have believed him—if Sherlock had actually answered the question.

“Then why did you sleep with her?” He let that question hang in the air long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable, even for Sherlock. “Why Molly? If it was about a physical release, or one wild night before you left, you could have got that anywhere. I’ve seen you when you want to be charming—you’re damn good at it. Why go to a woman who loves you, a friend, when you know you’re going to break her heart?”

The answer hit John even as he asked the question, and it floated between the two men, understood though unspoken. _Because I didn’t think I’d have another chance_. 

And that chance, with that woman, mattered.

There was a long moment of silence as they stared at each other, then Sherlock began pulling on his coat.

John stood up. “Where are we going?”

“To Bart’s. I’m taking Molly lunch.”

“No.”

“Flowers, then.” Sherlock caught sight of John’s expression as he checked his appearance in the mirror over the mantel. “Chocolates?”

“No. Molly will see straight through that, and you won’t get past the door.”

“But—“

“I told you. Your only chance is to fling yourself on her mercy and hope for the best.”

“Coffee? Surely I can bring her coffee. I’ve done it before.”

“When?” John said incredulously. “Molly brings _you_ coffee, Sherlock.”

“Well … I’ve brought her crisps!”

“Substituting some crisps for a lunch date is not thoughtfulness.” John shrugged into his coat, nearly being run over by Sherlock as he turned back on the landing. “What is it?”

“My scarf,” Sherlock said, snatching it off the coat rack. “Molly likes it when I remove my scarf.”

“Molly and every other woman in London,” John muttered, closing the door. 

“What’s that?”

“Nothing!” John ran down the stairs to catch up.

()()()()  
Sherlock strode down the basement hallway towards the morgue and was about to turn the last corner when John pulled him back. 

“Wait a minute. Let’s make sure she’s alone before you swoop in there like you own the place.”

Sherlock huffed for appearance’s sake, but he knew following John’s lead ensured the best possible outcome with Molly, so he waited out of sight until John returned. 

“She’s in the middle of an autopsy.”

“Of course she is. That’s her job.” He sidestepped John.

“I meant she might not appreciate being interrupted—“

Sherlock walked briskly, ensuring that the Belstaff billowed impressively behind him before straight-arming the double doors open. He gave a small smile of satisfaction when they swung nearly to the wall without banging into it and _swooshed_ shut behind him. His coat swirled round his legs at his abrupt halt. A perfect entrance, if he did say so himself.

A perfectly wasted entrance. Molly was removing a heart _male, mid-fifties, obese, likes cigars and lemon drops, natural causes_ and didn’t look up as she transferred the organ to the scale. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the dial automatically. _Six hundred fifty-three grams_. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs and turned to find John jerking his head towards Molly. Oh!

“Hello, Molly.” 

“Sherlock.”

He tried removing his scarf, but neither the flash of blue nor the expanse of bare skin caught her eye; or if it did, she ignored it. Sherlock ignored the implications.

Her long brown hair was pulled up in its usual ponytail, exposing the line of her neck. The skin was creamy smooth with no trace of the love bite he’d left behind. _Of course not. It’s been twenty-seven days, more than enough time for any bruising to heal_. Molly finished her observations on the heart, paused the recorder, and turned to face him, nudging her face shield up and clasping her gloved hands together above her waist.

Sherlock couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Hi, Molls.”

She smiled. “Hi, John. Case?”

“Not today.”

The silence stretched, and still Sherlock stared at her. Obviously it was lab!Molly standing in front of him, but he kept seeing naked!Molly instead. Lips swollen from his kisses, collarbones in sharp relief as she gasped for breath, hair spilling over her pillow when she—no, no! Ponytail, lab coat, scrubs. A red line across her forehead from the face shield’s foam cushion and her gloved hands streaked with blood.

“Why are you here, Sherlock?”

He frowned. That wasn’t right. Molly always asked what he needed. He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped forward. “Sudden cardiac death?”

But the moment he expressed interest in the corpse, Molly turned and covered it with a sheet. Ah, yes. She was sensitive about non-official observers for standard autopsies. “Dignity in death” or some such nonsense. 

“As you can see, I’m busy. Working.” She scooped the heart out of the weighing pan, using the fingers of her right hand to locate and probe inside the great vessels. 

“I thought you might like some coffee. I could go and get it for you, since you’re busy. Working.”

Holding the large heart in her comparatively tiny left hand, she selected a scalpel. John began tugging on Sherlock’s coat sleeve.

Molly barely spared him a glance. “No food or drink in the morgue, Sherlock. You know the rules.”

Yes, of course he did. _Idiot_. Any first-year science student knew that: no food, drink, or chewing gum in the lab. Too great a risk of accidentally poisoning yourself, or worse, contaminating an experiment.

Molly sliced the heart open along the coronal plane and began dissecting it. Sherlock couldn’t help but admire the skill with which she balanced the weight of the heart in her palm even as the dorsal lateral edge extended beyond her fingertips.

John was still pulling on his sleeve. Sherlock took his eyes off Molly’s hands _folding around his, cupping his face, sliding down his chest_ —

Distracted by John’s persistent efforts at his elbow, Sherlock began twisting his arm away as unobtrusively as possible, but he need hardly have bothered. Molly’s attention was focused on the heart in her hand; now she was making tiny cuts around the interior edges of the ventricles, freeing the chordae tendineae.

“We’re sorry to have bothered you, Molly,” John said. “Carry on.” 

“No, I’m not ready to leave yet,” Sherlock hissed. “She hasn’t said—“

With one deft slice, Molly flicked a valve into a kidney basin.

“Trust me, Sherlock, it’s time to go,” John said, and forced him out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s time to go,” John said, and forced Sherlock out the morgue door.

“But I didn’t even get to ask her if I could have any of his organs!”

“The heart was symbolic, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder towards the morgue doors. “Perhaps we should….“

“Increase the distance between us and the knife-wielding pathologist?” John said, using his grip on Sherlock’s arm to propel him farther down the corridor. “Yes, quite.”

They were halfway to the lift when Sherlock said, “Molly wants to cut my heart out?” 

“She wants to cut your heart out, you’ve cut her heart out, does it matter? For God’s sake, Sherlock, she was literally cutting heartstrings!” 

“Chordae tendineae.”

“I know what they’re called,” John said testily. “The point is, she’s heartbroken.”

“Your evidence for such a dramatic and emotional conclusion?”

“You see, but you don’t observe,” John said bitterly, jabbing the button for the lift.

“She’s lost five pounds, more than her typical weight fluctuation with menses and therefore due to caloric intake not keeping up with energy expenditure. She’s also been falling asleep in front of the telly instead of her own bed, probably watching reruns of that detestable musical she likes so much. Her hair hasn’t been trimmed since before I saw her last, and she wore scrubs to work today because she has no clean trousers.” 

“And your conclusion?”

“She’s not eating, sleeping, or doing her laundry?”

John clenched his jaw and tried to stay calm. Sarcasm and deflection were par for the course with Sherlock. John knew better than to assume he hadn’t been rattled by the visit, especially Molly’s cool distance. Besides, he was right: she wasn’t maintaining her usual standards of personal hygiene. Oh, she was clean and reasonably neat, but you could see the differences if you knew Molly: her normally sleek ponytail was sloppy and unbrushed, her scrubs were wrinkled as if they had been left in the dryer overnight, and while Molly was never made-up at work, she hadn’t appeared to be wearing any makeup whatsoever. And perhaps the biggest clue of all….

“That’s not how you dissect a heart.”

Sherlock frowned as they entered the lift. “I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t hold an organ in your hand and start slicing it up,” John said, punching the button for the ground floor. “You work with it on a table where you have both hands free and a stable surface for making accurate incisions. Doing it like she did, you’re likely to cut yourself.”

“Pffft, Molly?”

“She’s got great hands,” John agreed. He would not soon forget that perfectly excised tricuspid. “She’d be a damn fine surgeon. But you know as well as I do Molly’s a stickler for medical procedure, and I’m telling you, that was nowhere near proper dissection procedure. You certainly don’t remove the valves of a patient who died from cardiomyopathy.” John stepped off the lift and glanced back when Sherlock didn’t follow. “Sherlock? Sherlock!”

It took a few seconds, but long fingers wrapped around the closing lift door and forced it open. Sherlock’s eyes were unfocused, and he looked like he’d just been sucker-punched.

“It was the comment about her hands, wasn’t it?”

“What?” 

John smirked. “You were picturing Molly naked.”

Sherlock flipped his coat collar up and stalked towards the lobby. 

“Metaphor.”

“What?” John lengthened his stride to keep up.

“The symbolism you referenced earlier. It’s a metaphor.”

“And that’s a non sequitur,” John retorted. “I suppose next you’re going to accuse me of being cliché, talking about heartstrings.”

“If the cap fits….”

They exchanged a small smile at the idiom and its reminder of the deerstalker before John realized Sherlock’s attempt at distraction was working.

“It’s a perfectly normal reaction to seeing a lover, picturing her naked.”

“That never used to happen, before,” Sherlock muttered as they stepped outside. 

John shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You hadn’t seen her naked before.”

“But she wasn’t naked now, either!”

“I assume you’re familiar with this concept called _memory_?” 

Sherlock scowled. John grinned, pleased to be able to shift the morning’s frustration back to Sherlock, where it belonged.

“It’s distracting,” Sherlock complained, raising one long arm to hail a taxi.

“Mmm, yes,” John conceded. And convenient. With … everything that happened last year and then the birth of his daughter, intimate memories of Mary were about all he had these days. 

“Are you getting in?” Sherlock said pointedly.

John looked round to find a black taxi idling in front of him. “Oh. Right.” He opened the door and slid across, but Sherlock didn’t follow.

“Go home, John. I need to think.”

“Wait, Sherlock—“

But he didn’t wait, of course, and as they pulled into traffic, John rolled down the window and yelled after him. 

“No wanking in the cab!” 

()()()()  
It was all John’s fault.

Sherlock had had no intention of masturbating in the cab—or anywhere else, thank you—but the suggestion lingered, complicated by memory in place of fantasy. He no longer had to imagine Molly’s hair against his skin, or the taste of her mouth, or how she would fit against him. All those details, and more, his mind presented to him with razor-sharp clarity. He had deliberately fixed every detail of that night in his mind in anticipation of never seeing her again, had stored every moment to linger over during the months of his solitary exile without once considering he might have to face them in the cold harsh light of the lab; without considering they might become unwanted reminders when he was forced to face what he could never have. He needed to find a way to work with Molly, and he couldn’t do that if he kept remembering the touch of her hands, how small and soft she felt beneath him, the way she moved—

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the taxi approached Baker Street. He needed to banish these memories and return Mind Molly to her fully clothed and professional form. But upon reaching his flat and entering his mind palace, he discovered another problem. Mind Molly had become suddenly playful and uncharacteristically obstinate, peeking round doors, popping up from behind furniture, and dropping sheets all over his mind palace as she refused to stay in any room he placed her. Instead of producing wide eyes and hunched shoulders, Sherlock’s scolding was met with giggles—giggles!—and a come-hither smile. The most he had succeeded at so far was enclosing both lab!Molly and naked!Molly in the same room, but seeing as what emerged next was naked lab!Molly, in nothing but an open white coat and a ponytail, Sherlock didn’t consider it an improvement. 

He couldn’t work like this.

_“Problem, Sherlock?” Molly twirled the ends of her ponytail in one hand, her gaze fixed rather lower than was appropriate._

_Sherlock looked her directly in the face. “You do not belong out here,” he said firmly. He made no mention of her inappropriate clothing; last time he had tried to correct her, she simply shrugged it off. Literally._

_“It’s your mind palace. I’m wherever you put me.”_

_“I put you in your room.” He pointed in its general direction. “And locked the door.”_

_Molly smiled and pulled a bobby pin out of her hair. “You also taught me how to pick a lock.”_

_“This is unacceptable.” Sherlock grasped her by the upper arm and began steering her down the hall, decidedly not watching the sway of her exposed breasts as she walked. “I need you all in one place, and I need you to stay there.”_

_“All of whom?”_

_“All the Mind Mollys.” Past Molly’s old room, down to a lower section of his mind palace, with stone floors and heavy oak doors._

_“You have more than one Mind Molly? Kinky.”_

_“It is not kinky,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “There’s never been multiples of you before. Why aren’t you cooperating, Molly? You’re usually so malleable.”_

_“Is that what you think of me?” There was lab!Molly, dressed in her typical colorful clothes, her hair braided to the side like it was the day he came back, her folded arms causing her ID badge to stick out at an odd angle._

_“Oh, that’s not all he thinks,” said naked lab!Molly._

_“You’re not dressed! Sherlock, why is my nightmare inside your head?”_

_Sherlock shelved this detail for later (dreaming one is naked: a common theme indicating vulnerability or fear of exposure and misjudgment) and opened the door, waving both women inside. The room was comfortably furnished with a large rug, parallel sofas in front of a blazing fireplace, and wall-to-wall bookcases._

_“Oh, look,” breathed both Mollys in unison, stepping into the room and heading for the shelves on opposite walls._

_Sherlock had a stroke of inspiration and added one final detail. A green-eyed tabby with a white chest came round the far sofa, rubbed his face against the corner, and leapt onto the cushion._

There. Sherlock closed the door and dropped a heavy beam into the brackets on either side, barricading it shut. Maybe now they would stay and he could think. 

()()()()  
“Mmm, something smells amazing.” John tossed his coat over the back of a chair and wrapped his arms around his wife.

Mary returned his kiss, careful to keep the dripping spoon over the open pan. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Not coming.”

She frowned, stirring slowly. “Is he upset about the amount of time you’ve been spending with us?”

At the mention of his daughter, John looked to the corner of the kitchen, smiling automatically as he saw three-week-old Josie snoozing in her swing. 

“No. Well, maybe, but that’s not why.” He grabbed a fistful of raw veg obviously intended to go in a salad, merely grinning at Mary’s reproachful look.

“Well, why isn’t he coming? We can’t expect Mrs. Hudson to cook for him all the time.”

“I didn’t invite him.” 

Mary paused in the act of pulling plates from the cupboard. “Did you two have a row?”

John took the plates from her and began to lay the table. “He slept with Molly.”

Mary squealed in delight, then shot a guilty look at their daughter, who slept on undisturbed. “They’re together?” she whispered, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“No, they are most definitely not together,” John said grimly.

“But—wait, don’t tell me he—I’ll kill him,” Mary vowed, shredding the lettuce into bowls with unnecessary force. “I’ll actually kill him this time. What the hell happened?”

“He was saying goodbye.” 

Mary stared at him, her hands still full of lettuce. “Well, of course he—oh.”

John saw the shadows that sometimes appeared behind his wife’s eyes, the shadows they never talked about. Saw them linger for a moment, then recede as Mary locked away that part of her past again. She turned back to the salad, hiding her face.

“It was a suicide mission,” she said.

“Yes.” 

The pain must have leached into his voice, for she reached out, squeezed his hand. John turned it to squeeze back.

Mary sighed. “What a mess,” she said, setting the salad on the table. “So, Sherlock slept with Molly when he thought he’d never have to face the consequences of doing so, but Moriarty reappeared, Sherlock wasn’t sent to his death, and now he has to confront his feelings, which I’m sure he had no idea existed. Poor thing. Has he seen her yet?”

“Today, at Bart’s.” John accepted the dishes she passed him and sat down.

“How did it go?”

“She dissected a heart and severed the heartstrings.”

Mary winced. John waited for his wife to sit down before beginning to serve.

“Ugh, this is what happens when you have a baby and don’t talk to anyone,” Mary said. “I’ll call her after dinner.” She blew on a bite to cool it. “Or maybe I should just take over some ice cream….”

John did not question Mary’s assumption that Molly would take her into her confidence. He had learned early in his experience with women that they shared, in detail. And it paid to make sure those details were positive, a lesson it looked like Sherlock was going to learn the hard way. John watched Mary, who was clearly working out a plan, and considered whether he was obliged to warn his best friend. He thought of Molly—sweet, selfless Molly. Lovely, loving Molly, who had stood between Sherlock and the heavy hand of death not once, but twice.

Sherlock Holmes had made his bed; he could bloody well lie in it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out we'll see some texting between the characters. I've chosen to format the texts in all-caps and forgo the initials of the sender at the end. Think of it like dialogue, with a new speaker on each line. When this is not the case-when the same character sends two separate texts in a row-the subsequent texts will be indented.

Five days passed. Sherlock finally caught a case, and both John and Mary breathed a sigh of relief. The only person who seemed to miss what had become Sherlock's near-constant presence at the Watsons' was Josie, who took exception to being expected to sleep in a cot—alone, no less!—instead of snuggled between a cotton shirt and a wool coat with her godfather's heartbeat as her lullaby. Sherlock had allowed her to nap (he insisted sleeping less than three and one-half hours at any given time did not qualify as "sleep," and John had to admit he had a point) on his chest whenever he visited his mind palace. He'd only got up without remembering her presence once. Josie bounced, John lectured, Mary slept, and Sherlock lived. Between that and her frequent nursing, Josie had spent the vast majority of the last several days in someone's arms and protested the change in routine vociferously. So vociferously, in fact, that on the third night without Sherlock, her parents had stopped arguing about whether or not to ask for his help and were now debating taking her to Baker Street versus asking Sherlock to come over when the text came in.

MEET MOLLY AT THE MORGUE RE GEORGE ALCOCK. 0137

Mary pointed at the phone in triumph, her finger moving up and down in time with her bouncing of the baby. "Tell him you'll go if he comes over."

"I still think—"

"It's freezing outside, John! I am not taking a four-week-old out in the middle of the night in _February_."

"This is a bad idea," John insisted. "It's important to maintain boundaries with Sherlock."

"What is important," Mary said, "is sleep." She cupped Josie's head and switched from bouncing to swaying, her own eyes closing with the movement.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

John began texting a reply. "We never should have let her sleep with him."

"We can discuss sleep training tomorrow. Right now, I just want her to shut up." Mary's gentle hand patting the baby's back betrayed none of the frustration in her voice.

THIS IS IMPORTANT, JOHN.

I WILL LEAVE FOR BART'S WHEN YOU ARRIVE TO SIT WITH JOSIE.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH MARY?

YOU COME. I GO. THAT'S THE DEAL.

…

…

20 MINUTES.

()()()()

"You can't just text people in the middle of the night, Sherlock." John closed the door quickly. Mary was right; it was freezing out there. "We might have been asleep."

"You're newborn parents," Sherlock said, setting down his violin case and pulling off his leather gloves. "You never sleep."

John opened his mouth to argue, then realized Sherlock was right, as usual. "What's the violin for?"

"I need to think. Where's Josephine? I thought I was here because she wouldn't sleep."

"Mary's feeding her." John took a closer look at his friend. Sherlock's motions were quick and jerky, yanking off his scarf, flicking buttons open one-handed. Even with the violin he was uncharacteristically brusque, almost as if….

"Are you angry with Molly?" Maybe she had refused to work with him.

"No."

"Have you talked to her?"

"No." Sherlock raised the violin to his shoulder and drew the bow across the strings in one long note, testing the pitch.

John sighed. Sherlock could be painfully literal. "Have you communicated with her in any way?"

He whirled around. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

When John didn't respond, the quick notes of the assembly bugle call danced over the strings.

"Fine, I'm going." He picked up his coat and his keys. "I'll give Molly your love, eh?" John slammed the door behind him.

()()()()

"Hi, Molly. I hope you didn't come in for Sherlock."

She sat at one of the empty exam tables, transcribing her notes onto a laptop.

"Why would I do that?"

Right. Still pissed off, then.

She moved to open a drawer. "It's organophosphate poisoning. Butyrylcholinesterase and acetylcholinesterase in the blood. I'm still waiting on the tox report for the specific agent."

A chemical poisoning, and Sherlock wasn't in the lab running the samples himself?

Molly rolled the body out with a powerful tug. Mr. George Alcock was utterly unremarkable on gross examination.

"Anything interesting in the autopsy or his history?"

"His skin's clean, and other than the expected inflammation and increased secretions, so are his lungs. I'm going with ingestion, but not recently. His stomach was empty other than about a hundred mils of water."

A single two-handed push, and Mr. Alcock rolled smoothly back into his allotted slot.

"Molly." John cleared his throat.

She turned to look at him, her gaze direct and unguarded, and John wondered yet again how Sherlock could mistreat such a kind, open person.

"Do you think you could work out—whatever it is with you and Sherlock?"

"I haven't changed."

"What?"

"I'm not doing anything differently. I'm still here at work, and at home. I have the same phone number and email address. Sherlock knows where to find me. If he wants."

The last was muttered under her breath. John watched her wash her hands even though she hadn't touched the body, centering herself with a routine task, and understood. Molly had no way of contacting Sherlock in her everyday life; Sherlock had always come to her. Molly didn't visit Baker Street unless expressly invited; they weren't required to work together; they had no overlapping social obligations. For Molly to seek out Sherlock now, she would appear the jilted woman running after her lover. Whatever Molly and Sherlock's relationship when John first met them, they had been on equal footing for a while, and John knew women well enough to recognize Molly was not the type to beg.

Or maybe she just knew Sherlock well enough to know better.

"He never meant to hurt you like this, you know," John said quietly. "He wouldn't have … it was because he thought he wasn't coming back—"

"Don't." Her voice trembled, and she kept her back to him. "Please, just don't."

But Molly Hooper was no shrinking violet, and it was mere seconds before she turned with a smile, even if it didn't reach her eyes. "Is there anything else you need, Dr. Watson?"

"No, Dr. Hooper. Thank you."


	6. Chapter 6

It was days later before a text from Mycroft brought matters to a head. John had returned from Bart’s that night to find both his wife and daughter asleep in their respective beds. He heard from Mary, who heard from Molly, who heard from Greg, that Sherlock solved the case the following day. John gave him one day to recuperate and headed straight to Baker Street when he left the surgery.

Sherlock was deep-frying eyeballs.

“Where did you get those, then?” John tossed his coat in his chair and joined Sherlock in the kitchen.

“The freezer,” Sherlock said, lifting a specimen out with a set of tongs, examining it, and carefully returning it to the oil. “Emergency supply.”

“I see.” He didn’t, really; what made today different from that day over a week ago?

Sherlock acknowledged the pun with a dark look.

“What are you studying?”

“The effects of various types of heat on mucus membrane and vitreous content. I have convection, microwaves, and naked flame.” Sherlock indicated three eyeballs lined up on a plate in various stages of desiccation. “Boiling is next.”

“In tea?” John asked.

His friend grinned appreciatively. “I was wondering what to do with the last one.”

“As long as you don’t make me drink it.”

Sherlock’s phone chimed from the lounge, and John got up to answer it.

“It’s your brother.” He turned the screen so Sherlock could read it.

SHERLOCK, WHAT IS WRONG WITH DR. HOOPER?

Sherlock’s face went slack, and he dropped the tongs and lunged for the phone.

“Oi!” John protested as hot oil splattered across the table. “Watch—“

Sherlock typed at a furious rate, and John realized he had misinterpreted the message. John circled the table to see the screen.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH MOLLY? IS SHE OKAY? YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE WATCHING HER!!!

I AM WATCHING HER. SHE’S FINE, OTHER THAN THE FACT SHE IS SUDDENLY IMMUNE TO SUMMONS.

“Oh, for God’s—“ Sherlock pulled out a chair and collapsed into it, then picked up his phone again.

NOT MY PROBLEM. 

I’M MAKING IT YOUR PROBLEM. 

WHY ARE YOU TEXTING ME, ANYWAY?

YOU HAVEN’T ANSWERED ANY OF THE THREE MESSAGES I LEFT FOR YOU.

     OR YOUR EMAIL.

Sherlock tapped his phone a few times and made a face.

YOU HAVE BROKEN THE BEST PATHOLOGIST WE’VE EVER WORKED WITH AND YOU MUST FIX HER. I HAVE COUNTRIES TO RUN.

I DIDN’T BREAK ANYTHING.

The deep fryer sizzled, and John turned it off. 

“Is that it?” he said when Sherlock’s phone remained silent.

“That’s never it. Mycroft always has to have the last word.”

“The similarities between you two are uncanny.”

“What?” Sherlock’s head jerked up, his eyes wide. “Why would you say such a thing?” 

His phone beeped.

John caught only a glimpse of a map with a blinking red dot before Sherlock punched the home button and dropped the phone into his pocket.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock.”

He fished the disintegrating eyeball out of the oil and laid it on the plate alongside the others, then stood very still. “I told you. I spent that last night at Molly’s.”

John blinked once, twice. Mycroft knew about Sherlock and Molly … a blinking dot on a map … Mycroft put an ankle monitor on his own brother? “I take it back. He’s a cold son of a bitch.”

Sherlock’s blank expression eased. “So. Tea?”

John sat in the opposite chair. If Sherlock had been wearing an ankle monitor, that meant he wanted to see Molly more than he wanted to keep it secret from Mycroft. A hell of a lot, in other words.

“Let’s talk about Molly. More specifically, why you panicked when you thought something had happened to her.” 

“We still have no leads on Moriarty, and it’s highly likely he now knows the role she played in helping me fake my death. If I missed anything in dismantling Moriarty’s network, Molly is in grave danger.”

“Yeah, I get that. What I asked is why that scares you.”

Sherlock gave him The Look. 

“You’re doing it again.”

“She’s my pathologist.”

“Your pathologist, huh?”

“Ye-es.”

To explain that people—even detectives—did not have personal pathologists was likely to be as effective as explaining people didn’t have archenemies. John decided to take a different tack. “What about the case, organophosphate poisoning, wasn’t it? That’s right up your street. Why didn’t you do the testing yourself? And don’t tell me you didn’t know it was poisoning at the crime scene.”

“Of course I knew it was organophosphate poisoning. The toxicology was a formality.”

“Yet you didn’t come to the lab.”

“I didn’t need to go to the lab. Lestrade’s the one who needed proof of cause of death.”

“You’re afraid of Molly.”

“What? No.”

“You are,” John said, smirking. “You’re afraid of little Molly Hooper.” For good reasons, but a little motivational humiliation never hurt.

“She wants to cut my heart out, John!”

“She’s waiting for you. When I saw Molly, she said she hadn’t changed, that you could find her if you wanted to.”

“Say that again,” Sherlock said, his focus narrowing to John’s face.

“Molly said she hadn’t changed.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock said softly. “Why didn’t I think of that? I thought she wouldn’t want—that it was best—“ He pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Texting Molly for body parts.”

“Er, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Yes, it is. Molly said so.”

John tilted his head to the side. “Where did you get that?”

“You just said it. Pay attention, John.”

John ignored the flash of irritation and instead looked his confusion.

“Molly hasn’t changed,” Sherlock said, standing up and slipping the phone into his trouser pocket as he walked towards his bedroom. “This certainly isn’t the first time I’ve made her angry. It’s not even the first time I’ve trampled on her feelings for me.” 

“And?”

“And every other time I’ve returned to my work, including my work at Bart’s, as if nothing happened. Everything goes back to normal.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think—“

He reappeared in jacket and shoes. “Don’t you see? Molly isn’t the one who changed. I did. All I have to do is change back, and we can work together again.”

“And that’s all you want, to work with Molly.” John didn’t believe it for a second. If it was only about the work, Sherlock would have resumed it the moment he returned, Molly be hanged.

“Of course. The work is all that matters.” He shrugged into his coat. “Is Josephine sleeping better?”

John smiled. “She is. You were right, she likes the violin music.” 

“Of course she does. I hummed it to her when she was napping. Basic classic conditioning.” 

“You—“

“Hummed to her, yes. Go home to your family, John,” Sherlock called from the stairs. “I have work to do!”

()()()()  
Not far across town, a pathologist’s phone buzzed. She read the message, smiled, and left her office for the cold storage room. 

She had just the thing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might not want to read this chapter in public, especially someplace quiet or where you're supposed to be doing something else. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, watching the taxi’s progress through traffic. He had been upset with Molly for what he perceived as changing their relationship, but now it all made sense. She hadn’t offered him any body parts, or notified him of an interesting autopsy, or invited him to her flat because she had never done those things. He _demanded_ body parts, showed up at interesting autopsies, and barged into her flat. Except he hadn’t done any of that since Moriarty reappeared. Even without John’s scolding, Sherlock had known that what happened between him and Molly was Not Good. He had also known he could not fix it with a simple apology and a kiss on the cheek, so he had avoided the whole thing and waited for a sign from Molly that everything was okay again. Now he had his sign, and he was eager to resume his work.

Which had nothing whatsoever to do with seeing Molly on a regular basis again.

The driver stopped at King Henry’s gate. Sherlock paid and sprang out of the car. As he walked, he thought about what Molly might have for him. Intestines were readily available; with twenty-five feet per body, it was easy to cut off a yard or so with no one the wiser. Maybe some soft tissue samples? Skin would be boring, but perhaps a bit of lung? Or a tongue! Or maybe she had saved something from Mr. Alcock? Excited at the prospects after more than a month of apparently unnecessary self-restriction, Sherlock fired off a text as he entered the pathology building.

LAB OR MORGUE?

LAB. 

He headed up. 

Molly was preparing blood smears, and the centrifuge hummed beside her. Sherlock beamed at the sight of a styrofoam cooler sitting on the worktop near the door. This was more like it: a helpful, cooperative Molly who anticipated his needs.

“What is it?”

She fitted a slide onto the microscope platform. “Two organs and some soft tissue.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, impressed. He hefted the cooler. “It’s not that heavy.”

“They’re not livers, Sherlock.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

But she remained at the microscope. Molly never continued working when he arrived at the lab; she always stopped what she was doing to greet him. Sherlock scrutinized her. She looked better than the last time he’d seen her. Her hair still hadn’t been trimmed but was well-groomed, she wore her normal amount of makeup (no lipstick in anticipation of his visit; that was disappointing. Why was that disappointing?), she was back in her usual khaki trousers and favorite cherries cardigan, she was still favoring the left side of her neck, and—

“What is it?”

He opened his mouth to say that without seeing the length of her, he couldn’t tell whether or not she’d regained the five pounds, then thought better of it. Mary hadn’t taken well to his observations of her weight, and she’d been growing another human. Best not to push Molly too far on the first day.

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, I thought maybe you still had some samples from the organophosphate poisoning.”

Molly looked over the eyepiece. “The body has been released to the family.”

Sherlock’s face fell.

“But come back tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll see if there’s enough of the sample left for you to run a duplicate.”

It was important to please Molly (why was it important to please Molly? She’d already given him what he wanted), so Sherlock caught her eye and smiled, a maneuver that always resulted in a shy smile in return. 

But this was different. 

Molly looked straight back at him, and Sherlock couldn’t look away. She neither dropped her gaze nor blushed, and as Sherlock stared into her warm brown eyes, the room shifted. Instead of standing feet away from her with a lab bench between them, he was kissing Molly in the hallway of her flat, his forearm braced on the wall beside her head, her hand behind his neck, their bodies pressed together….

The centrifuge beeped.

Sherlock gasped as the lab came back into focus, feeling as if he’d just been knocked hard onto a flat surface. He grabbed the cooler and fled.

()()()()  
JOHN, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.

HOW BAD IS THE BLEEDING?

MOLLY HATES ME.

John raised his eyebrows and decided not to comment on Sherlock’s definition of _emergency_.

SHE DOES NOT.

LOOK!

John thumbed open the picture and nearly dropped the baby.

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!

IT’S A SCROTUM, JOHN.

I CAN SEE THAT. WHY ARE YOU SENDING ME A PICTURE OF A SEVERED SCROTUM?

BECAUSE MOLLY GAVE IT TO ME!!! I ASKED HER FOR BODY PARTS AND SHE CASTRATED SOMEONE!!!!!

“Mary!” John stage-whispered, readjusting the sleeping Josie. “Mary, come quick!”

“What is it?”

John showed her. 

She burst out laughing. “I can’t believe she actually did it!”

“It’s not funny!”

MARY’S LAUGHING, ISN’T SHE?

I TOLD HER IT WASN’T FUNNY.

Mary sat down on the sofa to read over John’s shoulder, still giggling. 

WHY DID YOU TAKE IT?

I DIDN’T KNOW! SHE SAID IT WAS TWO ORGANS AND SOME SOFT TISSUE!!!

“Th-that’s t-t-true,” Mary said, tears now streaming down her face.

“Shh, you’re going to wake the baby.”

“Worth—it,” she gasped.

John scowled. Josie began to squirm at the noise, and he rocked back and forth, trying to soothe her.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?

“He could always microwave them,” Mary said, wiping her eyes. “No, I know—one in the microwave, and one in the deep fryer. For c-com-comparison.”

John winced, and Mary giggled again. Josie woke with a cry.

“This is your fault,” John said, untangling her from her blanket and passing her to her mother.

Mary accepted her without protest and exposed one breast. 

“That’s cheating,” John accused. 

Josie latched on immediately, making little humming sounds. Mary gave him a serene smile, and John turned back to his phone.

LOOK, SHERLOCK, WE MAY HAVE … UNDERESTIMATED MOLLY’S FEELINGS ABOUT THIS.

OBVIOUSLY!

THIS IS MARY.

GO AWAY.

YOU NEED TO APOLOGIZE. NOT SOMETHING YOU COPIED FROM A BOOK OR A FILM, A GENUINE APOLOGY JUST FOR MOLLY.

I CAN’T GO NEAR HER! SHE WANTS TO CASTRATE ME AND CUT MY HEART OUT!!!

NO, SHE DOESN’T, NOT REALLY. SHE WANTS YOU TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU REALLY HURT HER AND SAY YOU’RE SORRY.

I WANTED TO TAKE HER FLOWERS OR CHOCOLATES, BUT JOHN WOULDN’T LET ME.

John and Mary exchanged exasperated looks. Only Sherlock could pout by text.

I SAID *NOT* SOMETHING YOU COPIED FROM A BOOK OR A FILM.

…

WHAT THEN?

YOU’RE THE DETECTIVE. OBSERVE. DEDUCE. WHAT WOULD BE MEANINGFUL TO MOLLY?

()()()()  
What _would_ be meaningful to Molly? 

Sherlock paced in front of the windows of his flat, Billy the skull tucked securely under one arm. Not something work-related; Molly already thought she didn’t mean anything to him outside of work. Which was stupid. He talked to her, didn’t he? Did she think he always made conversation with whomever was in the lab? Or brought the other pathologists crisps? He had refused to watch telly with her when he was staying in her flat for the Magnussen case, but at least he hadn’t criticized the shows she watched. Much. And did she think he would entrust his life to just anyone?

Other than the stupendous failure an hour ago, Sherlock had succeeded in keeping his memories of Molly locked away in his mind palace. After his first visit to the morgue, he had taken an extensive walk-through to collect everything associated with her and secure it in one location where he wouldn’t stumble across memories of her by accident or chance when looking for something else. He had been sloppier than he realized over the last few years, allowing memories of Molly to be scattered everywhere. He expected her books on pathology, forensics, and dissection in his library; her handwritten notes in his case files; even Toby’s presence in the zoology room. He hadn’t expected the garden to be filled with her favorite flowers or the wardrobe to contain every hideous jumper he had ever seen her wear. Molly’s scents were front row in the perfume room, her childhood memories dominated the general knowledge section, her favorite shows and films played constantly in the media room. Even items like her hairbrush and a stray earring, an old hoodie and the book she’d been reading, had made their way into his private rooms.

Sherlock refused to acknowledge his mind palace felt stark and cold without these reminders of her. 

But this cleaning meant he couldn’t answer Mary’s question. He didn’t know what would be meaningful to Molly, not without reviewing all the information he had on her, and there was more than facts and figures in her room now. There was memory, and emotion, and … sentiment. Sherlock abhorred the idea, even in imagination, but Billy’s macabre expression was unchanged.

“A fellow of infinite jest,” Sherlock muttered. 

He stroked the top of Billy’s head and stared at his chair. If he entered his mind palace … if he opened her room, looking for a way to apologize, he would find … Molly. Not Dr. Hooper; not even his pathologist, but Molly. He had not revisited what he had thought would be his last night in London since it happened, since he took all his memories of that time with Molly and stuffed them in a lockbox. After chasing the Mind Mollys all over his mind palace, after successfully corralling them in a barricaded room, Sherlock had taken that lockbox and buried it in another box in the back of a cupboard and deleted its location. That box could not be opened; it would result in disaster. It would change everything.

But if he didn’t do _something_ , everything would change.

If he didn’t find a way to make amends with his pathologist, his entire routine and work would change. He couldn’t work with naked lab!Molly, it was true, but … he didn’t want to work without _any_ Molly. Sherlock held Billy in one hand and looked into his eye sockets. 

“I have to do it,” he said. “The work is everything, and Molly makes my work easier. She makes me—it! She makes my work better. I have to find whatever it takes to fix this, because the work is everything.”

Billy grinned his toothy grin, and Sherlock could not suppress the sensation he was being mocked.


	8. Chapter 8

A black luxury sedan idled at the curb in front of Bart's pathology building, its exhaust frosty in the night air. Sherlock paid the cabbie and exited before the sedan's passenger deigned to get out of the car.

"Took you long enough." Mycroft flashed an entirely fake but impressive ID at the camera over the door and the lock buzzed.

"Some of us are actually in bed at four a.m." Sherlock opened the door and let it go without bothering to hold it for his brother.

"Some of us actually have important work to do, brother mine." Mycroft's voice held a slight strain as he elbowed the heavy door aside.

"Let me guess, it's the bakeries. They'll be open in another hour. How could you possibly sleep when a fresh array of delights awaits you? It's almost like Christmas every morning."

Mycroft's stoic expression did not change, but his eyes glared, cheering Sherlock up immensely.

"I do not require your assistance, of course," Mycroft said as they entered the lift and Sherlock pressed the button for the morgue. "It is simply a matter of expedience. The last time I made a request from Miss Hooper, she was decidedly unaccommodating."

"Doctor Hooper," Sherlock corrected, then cursed himself when Mycroft's mouth twitched ever so slightly. That had not been a mistake but a probe for information, and Sherlock had just confirmed he was still defensive regarding the petite pathologist. He didn't need Mycroft to say the words in order to hear them: _caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_.

"Expedience for what?" Sherlock said in his best bored tone, lounging against the wall of the lift even as the doors opened. In his hurry, Mycroft left the lift and turned down the hall before noticing Sherlock hadn't followed.

"Expedience that requires you to leave the lift, Sherlock." Mycroft didn't hide his impatience, a sure sign he was tired given the minimal provocation. He reappeared at the lift, putting one arm out to prevent the doors from closing with Sherlock still inside. "One of our informants disappeared two days ago, and intelligence suggests Jane Doe 10615 may be the woman we're looking for. We need to verify her identity and determine whether or not her death had anything to do with the operation."

Interesting. That meant there was a reason Mycroft suspected her death was not related to his operation, but the operation was sensitive enough that her involvement, or lack thereof, needed to be confirmed immediately.

"And I'm here because…." Sherlock knew why (his stellar skills of observation and deduction, obviously); he just wanted to hear Mycroft say it. Especially after that insulting comment outside.

"Because you can persuade Dr. Hooper to give you access to the body faster than going through official channels," Mycroft snapped. "Can we move on now?"

Sherlock experienced a twinge of foreboding. If the success of this little errand depended on him earning Molly's favor, they might have a problem.

()()()()

They definitely had a problem.

Sherlock had approached the morgue as usual, arms straight out to push both doors open and pace brisk for maximum coat-swirling effect, but the doors did not give under his touch. Only by throwing his head back in an undignified manner did he avoid busting his nose. Mycroft snorted, then gave a very unconvincing cough when Sherlock turned and glared at him.

"Molly!" Sherlock bellowed, peering through the safety glass for the familiar pony-tailed figure. "Molly, the door is locked!"

She appeared suddenly from the side. "No shit, Sherlock."

His jaw dropped in shock, and it was only Mycroft's coughing fit that brought him to his senses.

Sherlock closed his mouth and smiled at her. "Molly, I need to examine a body. It's for a case."

She made a show of pressing her face to the glass and looking left and right down the hallway. "I don't see Gr—Detective Inspector Lestrade with you."

"It's not a police case, Dr. Hooper."

Molly's eyes tracked upward. Mycroft spoke from just over Sherlock's shoulder, a position that would make their minuscule height difference noticeable. Sherlock gritted his teeth and resisted the temptation to elbow his brother in his well-padded gut.

"Well, then, what kind of a case is it?"

The corners of Mycroft's mouth lifted in his approximation of a smile and he said nothing.

Molly crossed her arms and raised her chin. "If it's really for a case, then there's no reason you can't go through official channels."

Sherlock noticed she was avoiding looking at him and stepped into her line of sight. "Molly…."

He hadn't meant for her name to come out like that, all husky and low, but it had a decidedly positive effect.

Mycroft pressed their advantage. "I assure you, Dr. Hooper, it really is quite urgent." He flashed his ID for good measure.

Molly looked from the folio, to the lock, and back at Sherlock.

He hesitated, then decided to go big. He pressed one hand against the window as if reaching out to touch her, leaned into the door, looked her directly in the eye, and bit his lip, waiting for her eyes to drop to his mouth (which they did with gratifying speed) before saying, "Please?"

Molly visibly softened. "Wait there," she said before walking out of sight.

Sherlock smirked at his brother.

Molly approached the door again and crouched down. Several official-looking pieces of paper appeared through the gap beneath the door.

"What's all this?"

"You want to see a body, fill out the forms. Mortuary Admittance Log, Evidence Examination Worksheet, City of London Coroner's Inquest Evidence Chain of Custody form, and Request for Release of Medical Records."

Both Holmes men stared at the red tape at their feet as if they had never seen a piece of it, much less the roll that Molly presented.

"Dr. Hooper." Mycroft stepped on the forms, hooked his umbrella over one arm and—even Sherlock couldn't call that a smile. More like a "baring of the teeth."

"I really was hoping to avoid any unpleasantness, but I must insist you unlock this door _at once_ and allow my brother to examine the body of Jane Doe 10615."

"Or what, you'll kill me?" She laughed nervously, then broke off at both men's serious expressions.

"Molly, be reasonable."

"You—you haven't even been reinstated by the Met yet, Sherlock. Greg specifically told me I wasn't to give you access to any bodies. I can't—I mean, I won't allow two non-medical civilians to examine a body without official clearance." Brave words, but she wasn't quite able to maintain eye contact and her hands fluttered in front of her.

Mycroft moved closer, not-so-subtly elbowing Sherlock out of the way. "Dr. Hooper—Molly—"

"That includes you, Mr. Holmes. Goodbye." She turned away from the door.

Sherlock's frustration boiled over. Molly could be emotional and irrational, he knew that, but he had never seen her be unprofessional like this, putting her personal feelings ahead of a case.

"Molly, what is wrong with you!"

She spun so fast her ponytail whipped her in the face. "What is wrong with me? What is wrong with _me_?"

She looked so much like she had the day she—the day of his drug test—that Sherlock actually took a step back.

"Molly, I—"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," she said fiercely. "If this is really about a case, then prove it."

Sherlock turned to his brother.

"It's classified, Dr. Hooper. I occupy a minor government position, and I assure you—"

"No brother of Sherlock's would occupy a 'minor' anything," Molly said flatly. "I know when I'm being lied to, Mr. Holmes. Fill out the forms, come back with Greg, talk to Mike—I don't care how you do it, but I'm not letting you examine any bodies without official clearance."

Sherlock and Mycroft were left staring at the mini-blinds Molly lowered to cover the morgue door windows.

Mycroft rounded on him, eyes narrowed and voice low. "What did I tell you? You've broken her. Not only is she excellent at what she does, but she was helpful and cooperative and knew how to keep a secret. Now look at her!"

Sherlock stepped around him and headed for the stairs. Mycroft might be an inch taller, but he was faster.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Sherlock? Caring is not an advantage!"


	9. Chapter 9

John raised his coffee to his mouth in an automatic gesture and tried not to fall asleep in the time it took the lift to lower him two floors. Sherlock had texted early this morning about a case and John had agreed to stop off at the morgue before work, if for no other reason than to ensure his friend left St. Bart's with the same amount of "organs and soft tissue" as when he arrived. The lift chimed its arrival, and John took another gulp of coffee.

Greg was already in the morgue chatting animatedly with Molly, who must be teaching today. Her lab coat hung off the hook of a cooler, exposing a slim-fitting dress in deep navy, and her hair was twisted into a professional-looking knot instead of her usual girlish ponytail. Judging by the amount of torso visible above the exam table she was leaning on, she was wearing heels too. John pictured Sherlock's reaction to this vision and suddenly felt much more awake.

"Wow! Don't you look nice."

"Oh." Molly gave a nervous laugh and stood up straight, smoothing her dress over her hips. "Thanks. It's new. Well, new to me at least. I found it in this little shop in—"

Sherlock burst through the doors. "Good, you're all here. I have a very busy day—" He broke off when he spotted Molly, freezing in place like a deer in headlights.

"The East End," Molly said calmly, finishing her sentence to John but looking straight at Sherlock and bearing his scrutiny (which appeared _very_ thorough) without comment.

"You're teaching today," he said at last.

"Yes."

"But you worked all night."

She shrugged. "It's my job."

They continued to stare at each other. Greg looked from Sherlock to Molly before saying, "If you could just show us the body…."

"Oh! Of course."

Molly grabbed a pair of gloves from the dispenser beside the sink and came round the exam table towards Sherlock. John could swear he saw Sherlock's nostrils flare as she passed much closer to him than usual … inhaling her scent? He fell into step behind her like a baby duck, and Greg turned to John with a "did you see that?" expression on his face. John just smiled and they followed the pair to the third table, where a body lay under a white sheet. Molly drew the sheet back, exposing the disfigured face of a middle-aged woman and the Y-incision that told she had been autopsied.

The poor woman was malnourished and obviously beaten. John clenched his jaw, recognizing the patterned bruising of both fists and shoes and the telling multi-color contusions of repeated abuse.

"Cause of death?" Greg asked, even as Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and began examining the body.

"Take your pick," Molly said. "I honestly can't tell if it was blunt force trauma to the skull—the left parietal bone, there—or hemothorax from a punctured lung secondary to rib fracture, here. The bleed most likely took some time, so the head trauma is probably the death blow, but both would have been fatal."

Molly made no effort to stay out of Sherlock's way as she normally did. Absorbed in his examination, he bumped into her. Startled, he looked up.

"Oh, ex-excuse me. I just need—" He gestured towards the lower half of the woman's body.

"Of course," Molly said politely. But she didn't move, and Sherlock stepped around her with exaggerated care.

"It was done with a boot," Molly continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, stretching the woman's skin so the outline and tread pattern were visible. "Men's size ten. The computer is still working on the tread pattern."

"It will be a workman's boot, such as those worn in construction," Sherlock said, not looking up from—

John realized he didn't know the woman's name. "Jane Doe?"

Greg nodded. "She was found down by the docks yesterday. Laid out with the rubbish."

"Unbelievable," John muttered.

"Her assailant is someone she knows intimately, a husband or lover." Sherlock snapped his magnifying glass closed and tucked it in his pocket with characteristic precision. "One hundred seventy-seven point … eight centimeters, about thirteen stone, a construction worker, probably a welder. They lived by the water, though not in any structure you or I would consider housing. She was a seamstress, not a very good one—"

"Sherlock!" Molly protested.

"Look at her hands." Sherlock grabbed one of them and turned it over.

"Donovan is right," Greg said in an undertone, watching as Molly and Sherlock bickered over the woman's extremities. "I must need glasses, because if I didn't know better, I'd say there was something going on between those two."

"Well, you didn't hear it from me," John said, knowing the disclaimer was its own admission.

Greg's face was priceless. "Sherlock and—I mean, _Sherlock_?"

John tilted his head towards the couple. "Look again. What does he remind you of?"

"A bloody computer on two legs?"

"Come on, Detective Inspector," John chided. "Detect. Inspect. Forget that it's Sherlock and just observe. What do you see?"

"You've been hanging around him too long, you have," Greg complained, but he did as instructed. "Molly's awfully stiff," he said after a moment. "It's not the dress or the heels making her uncomfortable because she was perfectly relaxed with me. Obviously it's not the dead body, so it must be Sherlock. That's new. She hasn't been flustered around him in a long time, but she's never been—"

"Cold?" John suggested, eager for Greg to see what he did: Mr. The-Mind-Is-Everything, showing off for a woman for ordinary bodily reasons.

"I was going to say 'distant,' but cold works," Greg agreed, taking in Molly's crossed arms and flat stare as Sherlock pointed out something on the woman's toenails. "That's Sherlock's speciality, but he's anything but today. He's practically bouncing around her, like an overeager—" His expression changed to wonderment as the penny dropped. "Bloody hell. They've got together, haven't they? He did something to piss her off, and now he's trying to impress her, trying to get back in her good books."

"Pretty much."

"And it's not working. He's being clever and smiling at her and everything, and it's not working."

"I did tell him to grovel," John said, wanting to be clear that his friend's failure was not due to lack of proper coaching. "Two weeks ago. He thought it a ridiculous idea."

Greg snorted. "He would. God, it's good to see her standing up to him," he said, watching Molly as she was the one talking now, moving the woman's arm across her stomach to turn her onto her side, pointing out a scar on her lower back. "He's an absolute arse to women and they fall all over him anyway. It's infuriating."

"We are talking about the woman who dumped James Moriarty," John reminded him.

Greg looked at him. "That's right. She did."

John couldn't help thinking there might be more than admiration in Greg's sigh.

"You do know she's in love with him, right?" John said. "I mean, properly, genuinely in love? Molly won't admit it, but Mary's confident that's why she broke her engagement."

" 'Course," Greg blustered, straightening up and busying himself with his phone. "I also know he's not half good enough for her."

"Mmm," John said. "That might be a problem."

"How do you mean?"

"Sherlock is trying with Molly because he wants to be able to work with her, he wants access to the morgue and the lab. But I think he won't really give it a go precisely because he thinks she's too good for him."

"And when he doesn't pursue her, _she's_ going to think she's not good enough for _him_. Bugger."

"I need to see the crime scene," Sherlock announced, walking away from Molly. "Molly can tell you my observations."

"Molly can tell you _her_ observations because _she's_ the one who did the postmortem," she retorted. "I'm not your assistant, Sherlock." She ripped off her gloves.

Sherlock spun towards her at the sound, watching closely even after Molly flung the gloves in the bin. John remembered she had done just that, removed a pair of latex gloves, right before she slapped Sherlock. Apparently it had made an impression, despite the drugs.

Molly reached for the hand sanitizer and rubbed her hands together briskly, then shrugged into her lab coat. "I emailed you my report as soon as you made the request, Greg. If you will excuse me, I'm needed above ground." She disappeared into her office, reappeared with her coat and a leather handbag, and marched out of the morgue.

The three men listened to the sharp cadence of heels on linoleum fade away, then John turned to Sherlock.

"Would it have killed you to tell her she looked nice today?"

"I have no doubt you and Gary covered that quite thoroughly before I arrived." Sherlock took his own palmful of alcohol foam, but not before sending a dirty look in Greg's direction.

"But you're the one who needs to apologize," John reminded him, wanting to keep Sherlock's attention off Greg's opinion of the petite pathologist.

"I was here for a case."

John rolled his eyes. "Multi-task, Sherlock. I've seen you charm women out of their flats, their cars, their bloody shoes! Yet you won't pay Molly one simple compliment. And what was that bit about her telling us your observations? She's a pathologist, one of the best in London! You can't just dismiss her like that."

"Just because you're not getting any sex is no reason to take it out on the rest of us," Sherlock said haughtily, adjusting his scarf. "How old is Josephine now, five weeks? Less than seven days to go, Doctor."

John ground his teeth together and reminded himself this sod was his best mate. "I'm going to work. You're on your own."


	10. Chapter 10

After exploring the crime scene and the woman’s living quarters, Sherlock texted Mycroft the details about her life and his conclusion that she had been killed by her abusive lover in a tragic turn of circumstances that had nothing to do with her work for the secret service. Mycroft didn’t reply, which was fine with Sherlock; it meant he found nothing to criticize. 

Reeking of refuse and river water, Sherlock headed for the shower as soon as he entered his flat. He redressed in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, then reached for his dressing gown. _Navy_. Like Molly’s dress.

He fell back on his bed with a groan. That entire visit had been a disaster. Somehow, quite without trying, he’d managed to make Molly angry enough he’d been afraid she might smack him. Twice. In less than three hours, which was twice as many times as he’d suspected her of doing so in all the years of their acquaintance. He’d been working on how to apologize to Molly all week, hoping he could avoid her long enough to solve the problem so the next time he saw her they could work together comfortably, but Mycroft had called and ruined everything.

Sherlock flung one arm over his face in embarrassment. He should have just ignored Molly and focused on the body—the _dead_ body. But Molly had changed the rules. He’d been ignoring lab!Molly’s appearance for years; he knew how to tune her out and where (and when) not to look. He even normally knew when she would be lecturing because she liked to practice with an audience, and who was a better critic than Sherlock?

But she had taken him completely by surprise this morning, and worse still, so had his reaction. He’d seen dress!Molly before, of course, but he’d never been ambushed by her. Sherlock moved his arm and frowned at the periodic table on the wall. Yes, ambushed! Attacked suddenly and unexpectedly by a petite blue lab rat, and his reptilian brain had taken charge and decided the best way to defend against this opposite-sex opponent was to show off for her. 

Then he’d been blinded by her lip gloss and hypnotized by her walk and got nearly everything wrong. 

He should have listened to Molly explain the cause of death, he should have asked about the lab results, he should have allowed Molly to point him in the direction of anything unusual or interesting as she had done so many times before. He should have _focused_ on the _case_. But nooo, he’d allowed himself to become a victim of his own biochemistry and ended up insulting the very person he was trying to appease. How was he supposed to apologize for that? _I’m sorry I was an arse in the morgue the other day. I didn't have enough blood flow to my brain_. 

Sherlock sat up, then rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He’d been more concerned with hiding his reaction to Molly than accuracy and thoroughness, let alone politeness (which was never very high on his list to begin with). And that dig at John.… Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration. Not one of his finer moments, even if it was true. He had been so indignant at being told off for not complimenting Molly on her appearance when that was the only thing he could focus on that he’d lashed out. Hopefully John would write it off to Sherlock’s usual bluntness and not realize he had chosen the first (only) topic that came to mind. But after two years “on his own,” John’s parting comment had stung, even if Sherlock knew his friend hadn’t meant it permanently.

Sherlock stood up, took his dressing gown off the hook, and shoved his arms into the sleeves. To refuse to wear a perfectly functional garment just because it reminded him of someone … because it invoked thoughts of her appearance and the way she smelled, which reminded him of other memories … to reject an item of clothing on such a basis was ridiculous. Illogical. Sentim—

Sherlock deleted that idea _at once_.

()()()()  
Sherlock lay on his sofa the following evening, alternating between his mind palace and examining the information tacked to the wall above him. After a week of research, he had concluded that the important elements to convey in an apology were an awareness of what one did wrong (he never should have slept with Molly in the first place), a sincere resolution to avoid repeating the mistake (he had lived without sex before, he could do it again), and a concrete demonstration of the value one placed on the relationship. A study of pop culture references to confirm his conclusions (Mary never said he couldn’t use films for research) revealed that admitting he regretted engaging in coitus with Molly was unlikely to result in a positive response. This discovery troubled Sherlock for an entire twenty-four hours as he tried to determine what, exactly, he had done wrong.

John came to his rescue once again as Sherlock replayed the day his friend found out about the change in Sherlock and Molly’s relationship. John hadn’t seemed upset by the revelation that Sherlock and Molly had sex; shocked, but not upset. It wasn’t until Sherlock admitted he’d had no contact with Molly for twenty-seven days that John went off on him. _“It is my sworn duty as your best friend to inform you: you’re screwed, mate.” “Jerking her around like this is more than ‘not good,’ it’s just plain **wrong**. She deserves an explanation for why you’ve suddenly cut her out of your life.”_

Sherlock sat up and opened his eyes with a cry of triumph. That was it! That’s what he did wrong, cut Molly out of his life. Even Molly had said so, according to John: _“She’s waiting for you. When I saw Molly, she said she hadn’t changed, that you could find her if you wanted to.”_

Sherlock picked up a triangle of toasted cheese from the tray beside him and shoved it into his mouth. Excellent. Step one was complete. On to step two: a sincere resolution to avoid repeating the mistake, which meant he didn’t have to resist Molly’s charms, he only had to not avoid her. Simple. Step three: a concrete demonstration of the value he placed on the relationship.

Sherlock reached for another sandwich and actually chewed this time. The value he put on his pathologist was … irreplaceable. Molly was irreplaceable. She saved his life, she put up with his idiosyncrasies, she assisted with his experiments, she _saw_ him. But how to show her that? He took another bite, then frowned at the sandwich in his hand. It was stone cold.

Sherlock picked up the plate (Mrs. Hudson must have delivered it hours ago while he was in his mind palace) and carried it to the microwave. He punched in the time and leaned against the kitchen table, thinking.

A concrete demonstration of the value he placed on the relationship … money? But how much would be enough? And what if Molly thought it was a bribe instead of an apology? She wouldn’t like that. Mycroft had tried to bribe her to spy on Sherlock years ago, and she’d been offended for weeks. No, money was concrete but too complicated. What else would Molly find valuable?

The microwave beeped. Sherlock juggled the hot plate between both hands before dropping it onto the coffee table with a clatter. He picked up a slightly-soggy-but-at-least-warm sandwich and ate it standing up. Billy the skull remained on the corner of the desk where Sherlock had left him nearly a week before. He had used his research on apologies to avoid entering Molly’s room in his mind palace (especially after what happened at the morgue yesterday), but it could be avoided no longer. He knew what he needed to do; now he had to figure out how.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was unable to find anything about Easter baskets in England. Easter eggs, egg rolling, traditional foods, yes. Baskets, no. I'm assuming that means you don't have them, but I wrote this before I thought to Brit-pick it, so humor me, okay? Also, I'll be writing for Camp NaNoWriMo in April (the Romione version of _Faintest, Slimmest, Wildest Chance_ ), and while I tried to finish this story by today, it just didn't happen that way. So we're going on a brief hiatus; I'll have something for you in May, although maybe not the first Wednesday of the month. 
> 
> For my HP readers, summary and excerpts (to be added over the next week) can be found at http://campnanowrimo.org/campers/keeptheotherone/novels/in-love-and-war

John took the stairs to Sherlock’s flat two at a time, coming through the open kitchen door to find Sherlock with his violin in hand and a variety of objects cluttered on the kitchen table. The microscope and any experiments were noticeably absent. “What’s all this?” 

“You had a good weekend.”

Leave it to Sherlock to figure out he and Mary hadn’t waited quite six weeks. “Shut up.”

But Sherlock smirked and John grinned.

“So? What’s this stuff for?” he asked, pulling out a chair.

Sherlock busied himself putting away his violin. 

John took in the pastel bed sheet spread out over the kitchen table, the large basket set in the center, and the various items that included rolls of ribbon, scissors, brightly colored tissue paper, chocolates, tea, and toys.

“Bit early for Josie’s Easter basket, don’t you think? Valentine’s was just Saturday.”

“It’s not for Josephine.”

John raised one eyebrow. “You’re making Molly an Easter basket?”

“It’s not for Easter,” Sherlock muttered.

“But you are making Molly a basket.”

He didn’t reply.

“I didn’t know she collected trains.” John picked up the model and examined it.

“She doesn’t.” Sherlock reached across the table, plucked the train out of John’s hand, and set it to the side.

“Toys for Toby?” John shook the package of two-toned plastic balls, and the bells inside them jingled. “You are desperate.”

Sherlock snatched these away too. “Just—keep your hands to yourself.”

“Oh, there’s a snappy retort.”

Sherlock swept the items he’d chosen for Molly into the basket and set it on the floor under the table. “Why are you here?”

“To annoy you,” John said cheerfully. 

“Why does Mary think you’re here?”

“To bring you to dinner,” John admitted. “She’s worried you’re not eating properly.”

“I had a toasted cheese….“ 

Sherlock paused, which John knew meant he couldn’t remember when.

“Recently. Two of them, in fact.”

“I rest my case,” John said dryly. 

“I’m busy.”

“Playing your violin and making a basket for Molly. I wonder what Mary will make of that?”

Sherlock scowled, and John knew he saw the trap ahead.

“Come to dinner.”

“No.”

“Come to dinner or I’ll tell Mary you’re making Molly a gift basket with trains and cat toys.”

“No.”

They stared at each other.

“Tell me _why_ you’re making a basket for Molly, and I won’t make you come to dinner or tell Mary about it,” John offered.

Sherlock hesitated, a rare occurrence that told John how difficult this was for him. “It’s a concrete demonstration of the value I place on our friendship. Step three of my apology.”

John pushed his chair back and bent to examine the contents of the basket under the table. Sherlock’s foot twitched, but he didn’t push the basket out of sight. John noticed a few things he’d missed before: a book off the bestseller list he was surprised Sherlock knew existed, a handwritten lab report, what looked to be a toxicology screen, and a bottle of—John squinted to read the label—melatonin.

“These are things Molly will understand the meaning of when she sees them.”

“I believe so, yes.”

John returned to an upright position, considering. Sherlock had obviously put a lot of thought into this, and John knew him well enough to know he had a specific reason for each item, even the sheet still covering the table between them. Somehow, John didn’t think it was there just to wrap the basket.

“Things that are just between the two of you.”

“Mostly.” 

“That … might actually work.”

Sherlock let out a slow breath.

“So. When are you going to present her with this fine collection?”

“As soon as I can gather everything.”

John nodded and stood to leave. “I’ll let you know what Mary says.”

“You said you wouldn’t tell her!”

“I won’t have to. If it’s any good, Molly will call Mary and tell her all about it.”

John moved the fruit bowl back onto the table in front of Sherlock and left his friend staring at the basket between his feet.

()()()()  
HOME OR WORK?

Mary’s reply to Sherlock’s text was instantaneous, as if she already had the phone in her hand.

ACTUALLY, I’M AT THE PEDIATRICIAN. 

NOT YOU, MOLLY’S APOLOGY. SHOULD I GIVE IT TO HER AT HER FLAT OR AT BART’S?

DEPENDS. WHAT WILL HER REACTION BE?

HOW SHOULD I KNOW? SHE’S HARDLY BEEN PREDICTABLE.

WHAT I MEANT WAS: HOW GOOD IS IT? WILL SHE (OR YOU) PREFER HER REACTION TO REMAIN PRIVATE?

Mary had an uncanny ability to convey her disapproval even without the use of vocal tone or body language.

JOSIE HAS A COUGH, THANK YOU FOR ASKING.

Like that.

IS JOHN WITH YOU?

NO, HE’S AT WORK.

Sherlock stared at the screen and considered how to respond. The appropriate response to learning one’s godchild was sick was an offer of help, he was certain of that. The question was, what kind of help? Surely, with a nurse and a physician for parents, Josephine didn’t need any practical help. That left … Sherlock made a face … impractical help. Support. Sentiment, in other words. 

Sherlock frowned at his phone, picturing the noise and chaos he would suffer in a surgery full of sick kids. He had plans tonight, plans that involved Molly—

Molly, who loved babies. Molly, who wouldn’t care if Sherlock’s apology was delayed because he was helping baby Watson. Molly, who might even be pleased and proud if he offered to help.

DO YOU WANT ME TO COME SIR WTH YOU?

     SORRY, SIT WITH YOU?

THAT’S SWEET, SHERLOCK, BUT YOU DON’T NEED TO DO THAT.

DO YOU NEED ANYTHING ELSE? CHICKEN SOUP, MAYBE? THERE’S NO EVIDENCE IT’S ANYTHING MORE THAN A PLACEBO, BUT—

Mary’s text came in while he was still typing.

I’LL BE SURE TO TELL MOLLY YOU OFFERED. 

OF COURSE I OFFERED. SHE’S MY GODDAUGHTER.

I’LL TELL HER YOU SAID THAT TOO :D :D 

DON’T YOU HAVE A SICK CHILD TO ATTEND?

SHE’S ASLEEP. SPEAKING OF WHICH, WILL YOU COME OVER TONIGHT IF SHE WON’T? 

     OR WILL YOU AND MOLLY BE “BUSY”? ;)

NO, WE WILL NOT BE “BUSY,” AS YOU CALL IT. TEXT ME. I’LL BRING MY VIOLIN.

MIGHT WANT TO RETHINK THAT APOLOGY, THEN.

Sherlock turned the phone on silent and dropped it in his pocket.

()()()()  
Molly Hooper gathered some coins from the jar she kept in the kitchen for “emergencies” and went to answer the door, expecting to see one of the children in her building who knew they could count on her to buy whatever the school expected them to sell. But there was no one visible through the peephole, only a white card with black block lettering that read I’M SORRY.

It could only be one person.

Sighing, she opened the door. “Sherlock—“

He stood in the hall outside her flat with what appeared to be an enormous basket wrapped in a pale blue bed sheet.

“What is that?”

“Hello, Molly. May I come in?” He actually waited for her answer, and Molly used the time to study him more carefully. Buttoned-up Belstaff with the collar popped, blue cashmere scarf, black leather gloves. His curly fringe was combed neatly to one side, and knife-creased trousers and shiny black shoes were visible below the hem of his coat. It did not take Sherlock’s skills to deduce he wore a perfectly tailored suit under that perfectly tailored coat— _and maybe a perfectly snug purple shirt?_ Molly suppressed her anticipation at the thought, tightened her grip on the doorknob, and hoped this wouldn’t be as big a mistake as the last time she opened her door to Sherlock Holmes.

“Thank you.” He carefully wiped his feet on the mat and stepped inside.

Molly closed and locked the door behind him. “Sherlock, what—“

“I have brought your apology.” He made to set the basket on the coffee table, then pulled back and glanced at her for permission. 

Molly gave it with a wave, and Sherlock set the basket down and stepped back. Judging from the way he’d been handling it, it was heavy. 

“What does that mean, you ‘brought my apology’?”

“Open it.”

“What is it?” Molly eyed the basket warily. The last thing she’d given Sherlock was a set of testicles. She hated to think what he would consider an appropriate response.

He gave a little shrug, and it was then that she noticed he was still wearing his outerwear and standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He had done that the last time, too— _in almost that exact spot_ —

His looming presence and formal manners were making her nervous. “Sit down, Sherlock.”

He dropped his hands to his sides but made no other move to obey her. “I wasn’t sure I would be welcome to stay,” he said quietly. 

Molly lowered her gaze and tried to ignore the weight of guilt gathering in her midsection. _She_ hadn’t done anything wrong. 

The silence stretched. Sherlock removed his gloves and ran them through his hands, then stuffed them in a pocket when he noticed her looking. Seconds later, he was rocking back on his heels, long fingers twisting a button on his coat without opening it.

Sherlock Holmes was _fidgeting_.

This, more than anything he could have said, put Molly at ease. Sherlock was only nervous when he was trying to follow social norms or forced to deal with emotions. 

Molly reached out and began untying the colorful ribbon wrapped around the knot holding the sheet together. She hadn't seen this sheet since the first time Sherlock stayed in her flat, when he had emerged from her bedroom the next morning sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, wrapped in nothing but yards of aquamarine Egyptian cotton which (purely by coincidence) exactly matched his eyes. With the first jingle of the dangling bells, she had “help”—Toby had leapt from his cushion onto the table and batted the streamers with one paw.

“That’s for Toby,” Sherlock said.

“It is?” Molly looked up in surprise. Sherlock and Toby’s relationship could best be described as “mutual disdainful tolerance.” 

“Cats like string, and bells, and things that roll,” Sherlock said. “And you like ribbon and bows and colors. And cats.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” She gave one of the balls a roll, and Toby raced after it. 

“It stands to reason that pleasing Toby is a simple way to please you. It seemed a good place to start.”

Molly stared. This was going to be no ordinary apology. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had enough scenes for another chapter after all :) I'm guessing our next update will be a few weeks into May.

John struggled to reach his phone in the crowded subway car, then clenched his jaw when he saw Sherlock’s message on the screen.

MOLLY’S CRYING.

WHAT DID YOU SAY?

SORRY.

WHAT?

MARY SAID I SHOULD APOLOGIZE. I TRIED THAT. NOW SHE’S CRYING.

WHERE?

IN HER FLAT.

John closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the edge of his phone for a moment. DID SHE LOCK HERSELF IN THE BATHROOM, OR WHAT? WHERE IS SHE CRYING?

OH. ON MY SHOULDER.  


     LITERALLY.

John let out a breath. He was sure Sherlock was both highly uncomfortable with Molly’s display of emotion and inexperienced enough at apologizing not to realize it was going well—so the trick now was to inject some confidence before he opened his mouth and ruined it.

THAT’S GOOD!

IS IT?

YES, IT IS.

IT DOESN’T SOUND GOOD.  


     OR FEEL GOOD. SHE’S GETTING MY SHIRT ALL WET.

SHE’LL APOLOGIZE FOR THAT IN A FEW MINUTES. TELL HER YOU DON’T MIND.

I DO MIND! THIS IS MOLLY’S FAVORITE SHIRT.

LIE, SHERLOCK. CONVINCINGLY. 

There was a long pause in which John pictured Sherlock staring in confusion at his phone.

YOU WANT ME TO LIE TO MOLLY?

ONLY ABOUT THIS ONE THING.

BUT IF I TELL HER I DON’T LIKE IT, SHE MIGHT STOP CRYING.

NO. JUST—NO.  


     BUT IF SHE OFFERS YOU A CLEAN SHIRT, YOU CAN TAKE IT.

CAN I ASK FOR A CLEAN SHIRT?

SHERLOCK! JUST HOLD HER AND WAIT FOR IT TO STOP. YOU’RE DOING FINE, I PROMISE.

John suddenly realized there’d been an awful lot of texting for someone who supposedly had his arms full.

YOU ARE HOLDING HER, RIGHT? AND SHE DOESN’T KNOW YOU’RE TEXTING ME?

GIVE ME SOME CREDIT.  


     BUT HOW DO I MAKE HER STOP?

TRY RUBBING HER BACK OR STROKING HER HAIR. LONG, SLOW STROKES, LIKE PETTING A DOG.  


     BUT DON’T SCRATCH BEHIND HER EARS.

John chuckled at his own wit, then more loudly at Sherlock’s response, thumbed across the number pad.

!@#$%

John was in the motion of putting his phone away when it dinged again.

SHE’S STILL CRYING.

THAT MUST HAVE BEEN SOME APOLOGY.

YOU’RE SURE THIS IS OKAY?

IS SHE STILL IN YOUR ARMS?

YES.

THEN YOU’RE GOOD.  


     KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT UNTIL SHE STOPS, THEN FOLLOW HER LEAD.

John waited as the train pulled up to the platform and stopped, then as passengers exited and entered in a shifting crush of movement. The doors closed and the train accelerated, but his phone remained silent. 

()()()()  
Molly had finally stopped crying a full two and a half minutes ago but was still snuffling into his shoulder. Despite the awkward tension that became harder and harder to ignore, Sherlock followed John’s instructions, holding her and petting her back without comment, waiting for her to speak. Then Molly did something that reassured Sherlock immensely: she did exactly what John had said she would do.

“Oh, Sherlock, your shirt!” she exclaimed, seeing the wet patch as soon as she raised her head. She blotted at it, only succeeding in smearing the moisture around and ensuring the fabric was securely attached to his skin. “I’m sorry. You must be sooo uncomfortable—you’re always so impeccably dressed….“

“It’s fine,” he said dismissively. _Please offer me another shirt. This one is wet and sticky and disgusting, please say—_

“I’ll find you another shirt,” Molly said, standing up and wiping her face with the back of her hand. 

Sherlock sighed in relief. Molly always understood what he needed.

“It won’t be as nice as that one—well, if it were it wouldn’t fit you, which wouldn’t be nice at all, would it?”

Sherlock trailed her down the hall to her bedroom, where she opened the bottom drawer of her chest and pulled out a faded gray tee with half a logo visible and, as it fell open in her hand, a list of major world cities. 

Molly jumped when she turned around; apparently she hadn’t noticed him following her. “Oh! I wasn’t expecting, er—“ 

It was only when her eyes veered left, towards her bed, that Sherlock realized John probably meant his instructions to “follow her lead” figuratively, not literally. Toby sprawled in the center of Molly’s made bed, his green eyes fixed on Sherlock as if daring him to attempt to persuade his mistress to move him. Sherlock narrowed his own blue ones in return. Judging from the sharp flick of Toby’s tail, Sherlock’s non-apology for the cat’s abrupt removal on his previous visit was received. Satisfied, Sherlock took the one step that enabled him to reach the box of tissues on the bedside table and exchanged them for the tee dangling from Molly’s hand. 

“Thanks.” Molly pulled a tissue from the box and dabbed at her nose.

“Blow,” he ordered, unbuttoning his cuffs. “Your voice is nasally and not at all like you.”

She ducked her head and turned her back but did give a hearty blow on each nostril, then took a fresh tissue and wiped her eyes, turning round just as Sherlock pulled his shirttails out of his trousers. 

Molly squeaked and flushed and continued turning in a near-pirouette that was surprisingly graceful. Since her back was to him again, Sherlock took the liberty of wiping the damp area of his bare chest with a dry sleeve, then pitched his shirt into her hamper, where he knew she would wash and iron it for him before returning it.

“Really, Molly, there’s no need to be so modest. It’s not like you’ve never seen me without a shirt.” 

Molly faced him, obviously embarrassed, though whether more by her reaction or his actions, he couldn’t say. She wouldn’t look at him—correction: she wouldn’t meet his eyes—but she watched his reflection in the mirror.

Unbidden, Sherlock remembered a nude Molly kneeling behind him, her breasts against his back, her hands—

He cleared his throat, feeling a little hot around the collar. Which was ridiculous, as he wasn’t wearing a collar. It must be something about the room. Memories were always more powerful, easier to access, in the place where they occurred….

Now hyper-aware of Molly’s watching gaze, Sherlock picked up the tee from the corner of Molly’s bed, put his arms through the sleeves, and stuck his head through. He experienced a ridiculous amount of relief as he pulled the fabric down his torso, almost as though a shield were dropping over his body.

He would like to tuck the shirt in, but his trousers were too snug for him to slip a hand inside the waistband without unzipping them, and—

No, no, he was _not_ remembering Molly’s hand on his fly, or the feel of anything else of Molly’s, for that matter. Those memories were locked away, in a box in a cupboard in a room he didn’t remember, they were not surrounding him with her voice or her scent—

_Keep telling yourself that, mate._ John’s voice in Sherlock’s mind was annoyingly smug. _You pictured her naked when you saw her for the first time, you fantasized about her hands when she dissected the heart, you couldn’t even pick up a cooler without remembering kissing her._

_Shut up!_

_Not to mention the multiple versions of Molly in your mind palace._

That was one of the more annoying things about Mind John—he knew things the real John couldn’t. 

_And for someone who thinks her tits are too small, you were rather obsessed with them in the morgue on Friday, weren’t you?_

_It was that dress, it—Shut up!_

_Here’s a hypothesis for you: you’re attracted to Molly, and she can use that to influence your behavior._

Molly was laughing. Molly had never laughed at him, and Sherlock opened his eyes before he realized he’d closed them.

Her embarrassment had faded, and she was looking at him with amusement. “Well, you definitely need different trousers and shoes to pull off that look. Although—“

She reached up, and he must have unconsciously leaned towards her because her hands ruffled his hair. Her touch was firm but gentle and gone all too soon. 

“There,” she said. “That’s a little better.”

Sherlock was alone in Molly’s bedroom for a full minute before he admitted Mind John might have a point.


	13. Chapter 13

Molly closed the door behind Sherlock and leaned against it, grinning like a fool. Sherlock could be very charming when he tried and he had succeeded tonight, allowing her to choose the restaurant for take-away and even eating his share without her nagging. He regaled her with his cases over the last six-and-a-half weeks and listened attentively to Molly’s stories of the morgue and the path lab, flagging only slightly when she slid from case studies to gossip. He helped clear the table and when he offered to fill Toby’s empty dish, Molly began to wonder just how much she could get away with tonight and suggested an episode of _Downton Abbey_. 

Sherlock gave her a dark look over the bag of kibble. “Don’t be ridiculous, Molly."

She giggled, which made him smile. They settled on a game of Scrabble, which Molly was winning 332 to 320 (thanks to a well-placed _chutzpah_ , chosen as much for its irony as its twenty-seven points), when Sherlock’s text alert sounded from down the hall. He must have left his phone in his jacket, still hanging on her bedroom door.

“It’s okay,” Molly said when he hesitated.

“I am expecting a text about Josephine,” he said, pushing away from the table and disappearing around the corner.

“Oh? Is everything all right?”

“Mary took her to the pediatrician today about a cough,” Sherlock said, reappearing with his phone in hand.

“Oh, no!” Molly said, picturing the many respiratory illnesses that could be dangerous in a one month old. “She hasn’t had any TB exposure, has she? Or chlamydia? Chlamydia can cause a cough in infants. RSV is most dangerous for babies under a year, and Josie’s barely not a newborn anymore! Even the flu—“ Molly put a hand over her mouth. “She doesn’t have the flu, does she? I mean, influenza-like illnesses have declined in England for the second week in a row, but there were still twenty-six new ICU admissions last week and we’ve had eighty-one confirmed influenza deaths so far this season. I heard at King’s College three-quarters of the PICU is medical vents.”

“That’s a mortality rate less than one tenth of one percent of the population. They’re home, so it can’t be that bad,” Sherlock said, texting a reply. “Mary wants me to come play for her.”

“Play for her?” Molly reminded herself that just because she dealt with death every day didn’t mean everyone was dying. Well, no faster than usual, at least.

“My violin,” Sherlock said, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket and reaching for his coat. “It helps her sleep.”

Molly gripped the edge of the table and endeavored not to melt into a puddle in her own kitchen floor. “Well, give them my love.”

“I’ll leave out the part about you suspecting their infant daughter has a sexually transmitted infection, shall I?”

It was Molly’s turn to give him a dirty look, and one corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up. He stood in the middle of her sitting room, coat and scarf on, hands in his pockets, and Molly realized he was trying to figure out how to say goodbye. She got up and walked to the door, unlocking and opening it.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Molly said, looking up at him, one hand still on the doorknob.

“You’re welcome,” he said, but didn’t step into the hallway. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

His voice rose at the end, turning what she was sure he had meant as a statement into a question, and she smiled. “I’d like that.”

His expression eased, and he said goodnight.

()()()()  
Molly’s own text alert brought her back to the present. It was Mary.

SORRY TO TAKE HIM AWAY FROM YOU. HOW DID IT GO?

DON’T MAKE SMALL TALK AND DON’T OFFER HIM ANY FOOD.

THAT GOOD, HUH?

Molly glanced over at her coffee table, where the items from Sherlock were still spread out. He had thought of her—really thought of her, Molly—and she was surprised and touched and pleased and too soft for her own good.

HE GAVE ME THE SEQUEL TO A BOOK I READ 5 YRS AGO. HE SAID IT WAS OBVIOUS FROM THE WAY I CARRIED IT IN MY POCKET AND THE FOOD STAINS ON THE EDGE OF THE PAGES THAT I HADN’T BEEN ABLE TO PUT IT DOWN, AND HE NOTICED I DIDN’T OWN THE SEQUEL.

WHEN DID HE NOTICE THAT? DID HE BREAK INTO YOUR FLAT AGAIN?

I WOULDN’T PUT IT PAST HIM, BUT I DON’T THINK SO. I DON’T THINK EVEN HE WOULD BE THAT BOLD AFTER THE SCROTUM.

LOL, THAT WAS BRILLIANT BTW. PURE GENIUS.

IT WAS YOUR IDEA.

I WAS THINKING SOMETHING REVOLTING, LIKE A PARTICULARLY MOLDY FUNGUS OR SOMETHING.

     HANG ON, J’S ROOTING. BRB.

OK.

Molly slid her phone into her back pocket and began putting away the items Sherlock had given her. She got distracted by her new book, which started off as good as its prequel, and jumped when her phone rang half an hour later.

“Sorry,” Mary said by way of greeting. “I have to suck her nose out in order for her to breathe during feedings, but it makes her so mad it’s hard to get her to latch. She’s so congested, she can only nurse for a few minutes at a time.”

“Poor little thing,” Molly sympathized.

“John says if she’s crying that loudly she’s not having any difficulty breathing, but I can hear her wheezing a bit now. She wasn’t doing that at the surgery. Do you think that’s bad?” Mary sounded anxious, a far cry from the calm, reassuring tone she had with her own patients.

“Um, I’m not sure you want to ask a pathologist that question,” Molly said.

“No! God, no. Of course, you’re right. My quals are in adult nursing, Molly. The only thing I know about kids is they’re not just little adults and they crump fast.”

“But things always look worse at night,” Molly said, scrambling to reassure her friend. “And I’m sure John is right. It takes a lot of air to cry. And she _is_ still nursing.” She remembered that much from her peds rotation, at least—babies should always be vigorous eaters.

“Right.” Mary took a deep breath. “Yes, she is. And she doesn’t have a fever. He said if she developed a fever or she refused to nurse I’d have to bring her back.”

“Well, that’s good then!” Molly said brightly, tucking her feet under her and reaching for the throw on the back of the sofa. “Where is she now?”

“Sherlock has her. Well, he’s watching her. Can you hear him?”

There were rustling sounds as Mary moved, and Molly heard the unlatching of a door, followed by the lilting strains of Peter’s theme from _Peter and the Wolf_.

“He sounds good,” Molly said when Mary brought the phone back to her ear after a minute. 

“He looks good too.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “He always looks good.” A statement of fact that had nothing to do with her feelings about the man.

“Not like this. Here, hang on. I’ll show you.”

Mary switched the call to video, and Molly tapped her screen to accept it.

“Oh, my….”

Sherlock stood in three-quarter profile, eyes closed, violin tucked under his chin. He had taken her advice and changed into jeans and oxfords with her Coldplay t-shirt. Molly hadn’t seen Sherlock in jeans since … since the very early days when he first started working with Greg Lestrade.

“He looked like he was waiting for me to say so—so—something—“ Mary yawned. “But I didn’t.”

“I should let you go. You need rest.”

“I always need rest,” Mary sighed. “But seriously—you two are all right now? He gave you a proper apology?”

“He did,” Molly said, looking at the sheet she’d folded but not put away, remembering the look on Sherlock’s face when she’d asked about it, the intensity he’d shown when he explained he’d brought her a basket of things that reminded him of her to demonstrate the value he placed on their relationship. So she would know she counted. That she had _always_ counted.

“Good,” Mary said with undisguised relief. “He’s been an absolute terror without you and the lab.”

“But you love him anyway.”

“So do you.”

“Goodnight, Mary.”

()()()()  
Sherlock stretched out on the Watsons’ sofa as best he could, a pillow wedged behind him and his stockinged feet extending past the sofa’s opposite arm onto the end table. The only light came from outside in deference to baby Josephine asleep on his lap. With one hand on her back to secure her, he could feel the vibration as air passed through the mucus clogging her lungs, and her tiny wheeze was audible in the silence. John sat in the stuffed chair in the corner, the tea Mary had made before she went to bed untouched at his elbow.

“So. Molly.”

Sherlock gave an internal groan. Between a wailing Josephine and anxious parents, it had been rather chaotic when he arrived, and he had hoped he’d be able to avoid this conversation.

“She decided to forgive you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

 _She’s smiling at me again_. “I still have all my organs. And soft tissue.”

John chuckled. “I’m glad to hear it. Seriously, mate. She’s a sweetheart.”

“She’s the best pathologist at Bart's.”

John gave him what was probably a “yeah, right” look, but Sherlock pretended not to see it in the darkness. Despite the sleeping baby and the quiet house, John remained in his chair, watching Josephine breathe.

“If you want to sit with her, I can go home,” Sherlock offered.

John started at the sound of his voice. “No, it’s not that—“

“I know she’s sick, but I’ll wake you if anything changes.” Sherlock reminded himself there was no reason to be offended at John’s reluctance to leave him alone with the baby; neither babies nor illnesses were among Sherlock’s many areas of expertise.

John shook his head. “It’s not that, it’s not the dad in me, it’s the doctor. She’s wheezing.”

Sherlock frowned, looking from Josephine back to John. “You told Mary it was fine.”

“I didn’t want to worry her. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you’ve lied to Molly to protect her.”

Sherlock ignored the implications of that comparison and refocused John’s attention on his daughter. “How long should I let her sleep?”

“Mary will wake up if she gets uncomfortable.”

Oh. Right.

“Listen, Sherlock … thanks for doing this.”

He shrugged. “I am the one who conditioned her to sleep with violin music.”

“Yeah, I know, I just meant … being here. While she’s sick and all. We appreciate it. You’re a good friend.”

Sherlock blinked at him in the yellow light from the streetlamp. He didn’t know what to say to that, so…. 

“Crap telly?” he suggested.

“Crap telly,” John agreed with a smile, standing up to find the remote.

()()()()  
Hours later, Molly was ensconced in bed, reading way past her bedtime, when the lights on her phone caught her eye. Seeing that the message was from Mary, and worried about Josie, Molly immediately set down her book and thumbed across the screen.

ARE YOU SITTING DOWN?

Molly’s finger had just reached for the send button when the second text came in, accompanied by a picture.

HE HEARD JOHN SAY SHE WOULD BREATHE BETTER IF SHE WERE ELEVATED AND DID THIS:

It was a picture of Sherlock on John and Mary’s plaid sofa, not lying down as he usually did but sitting up with long legs folded and Josie high on his chest, just under his chin. Only her head was visible because Sherlock had tucked the front of his coat around her like a blanket.

Molly fell asleep with the phone in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The triage nurse in me feels obligated to tell you that wheezing one month olds do belong in the ER (or A&E, as the case may be). In fact, most wheezing _infants_ belong in the ER, but it was the simplest way to illustrate the significance of Josie's illness that I thought everyone would understand. The flu statistics Molly quotes were taken directly from the weekly national flu reports from Public Health England for the corresponding week of February 2015 (thank you, Google!), and the PICU (pediatric intensive care unit) reference came from an off-the-cuff remark by a lactation consultant at a major teaching hospital in the Southeast U.S.
> 
> Now for the interesting stuff :) Next week's chapter (yes, we're back to weekly updates!) will be the last, but there will be one more update after that because I'm going to post an outtake for this story. Thanks for hanging in there with me!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of plans: My beta read this chapter and said "you can't end it there!" for reasons that will soon become obvious. So, next week I will post a brief epilogue _and_ the outtake, how's that? I did have a quick phone consult with my dad, who is a retired analytical chemist, but don't take the technical details here too seriously. 
> 
> Remember in _The Great Game_ , when Sherlock deduces Jim is gay and Molly storms out? Remember the look on Sherlock's face after she leaves? Keep that in your mind's eye.

Molly Hooper continued looking through the microscope, refusing to allow herself to check the clock _again_. Sherlock had said he would be here today, but the clock would give no clue of his arrival since he hadn’t specified a time. She knew better than to sit around waiting for him; he could just as easily breeze in ten minutes before the end of her shift as show up in the first hour. 

Molly adjusted the microscope to bring a lower level of the sample into focus and ignored the way her braid fell forward past the stage. She was wearing her hair parted on the left and pulled to the side because it was flattering and she usually received compliments on it. If it just so happened that one of those compliments had come from Sherlock, if this was the way she had worn her hair the day he came back from the dead, well, that was coincidence. She certainly wasn’t foolish enough to believe in a lucky hairstyle.

Molly sat back. That basket, though … she couldn’t stop thinking about it. After sorting through a dozen items ranging from the traditional to the obscure, items that showed Sherlock knew her better than anyone else, that he really had been paying attention all those years he’d been floating in and out of her lab, her flat, her heart, Molly had been moved to tears. He had said over a year ago that she “mattered the most,” but she thought he meant she had been the most helpful person in faking his suicide. 

She had been engaged to another man; that’s all she could allow it to mean.

But Molly wasn’t engaged any longer, wasn’t even dating anyone. That basket had been the single most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her, and while she knew better than to expect Sherlock’s well-mannered behavior to continue, and she definitely was _not_ getting her hopes up (flattering hairstyle and brightly striped shirt notwithstanding), she couldn’t help thinking this could be a turning point for them. 

The double doors to the lab opened with the familiar _thud and swoosh_ that preceded Sherlock’s arrival.

“Molly, what do you have in the way of acids?”

Molly slid off her stool and came around the lab bench to greet him, but Sherlock made a beeline for the supply cupboard at the back of the room. She trailed behind him.

“Hydrochloric, formic, sulfuric … I have Bouin solution, of course….”

“No, it’s not a pure acid.” Sherlock turned away from the shelves. “What strength of hydrochloric?”

“Twelve normal.”

“No phosphoric acid?” He bent to examine the lower shelves.

Molly shook her head even though he wasn’t paying her any attention. “You’d have to go to the chem lab for that.”

Sherlock frowned. “They don’t like me.” Then he brightened and turned to her with a smile. “Would you go to the chem lab and get me fifty milliliters of phosphoric acid? Please?”

She had known his good behavior wouldn’t last, but she hadn’t expected it to disappear quite this quickly. “What do you want it for?”

He hesitated.

“No,” Molly said firmly. “You’re a graduate chemist. You can make do with what’s available here.”

He pouted but didn’t argue, gathering supplies and carrying them to the opposite end of the lab bench before removing his coat and jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

“How’s Josie?” Molly asked, returning to her stool and propping one arm on the worktop to watch him.

“Better. Mary steamed her before her two a.m. feeding and that seemed to help, so we did it again this morning. When I left she wasn’t even wheezing.”

“She steamed her?” Molly had a pretty good idea what he was talking about but found his wording amusing.

“She ran a hot shower and kept Josephine in the vapor but out of the water. Ergo, she was steamed.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear she’s doing better.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said absently, arranging beakers and ingredients with long, graceful fingers. 

“Mary called me while you were playing for her last night,” Molly said. “It was beautiful.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to hers, just for a moment, then returned to the worktop. “Thank you.”

He’d obviously spent his banishment planning an experiment he was eager to conduct, so Molly returned to her own work. They worked quietly but amicably for some time, and Molly made a significant dent in her sign-outs. She was looking at yet another normal blood smear when the question just popped out.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“What?”

Absorbed in her own work, Molly hadn’t noticed that Sherlock was leaning back against the sink, waiting for the timer beside his experiment as it ticked down from eight minutes. She looked up to find him watching her and flushed.

“Um, after … after you came back. I understand why you didn’t … why we weren’t….” She paused, trying to form the words, then took a breath and plunged on. “I understand why you didn’t come back to _me_ , but why didn’t you just come back here, to the lab? To your work? You always have before.”

“Ah. Well. I hadn’t thought about what to do because I hadn't planned on returning, but based on my limited experience with … that, it seemed the wisest course of action was to give you some space until things … calmed down. Between us.”

Molly studied him a moment, but he appeared to be telling the truth, that he had considered the best way to handle it. He had been wrong, but he had considered it.

“You never have before. Given me space, I mean. You’re the king of not respecting personal boundaries.”

“I’m trying to do better.” He glanced at the timer.

“Yes, we have four and a half minutes left to continue this conversation.”

“John did say I’d have to talk about it multiple times,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Molly said, though she heard him perfectly well.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, standing up straight and giving her one of his practiced smiles. “You were saying?”

“If you had shown up here, I could have forgiven you,” Molly said. “If you had—it was—“ She closed her eyes briefly. “It wasn’t until you completely ignored me that I really got hurt. You understand that, don’t you? After all we’ve been through….”

“I understand.” His voice was deep, solemn, his gaze direct and piercing. “I’ll never do anything to risk our friendship again, Molly.”

“Yes. Well.” Molly cleared her throat, which felt awfully dry all of a sudden. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She turned back to her microscope and rested her hands on the dials, taking a moment to gather herself. The timer beeped, and as Sherlock silenced it and lifted a beaker to observe its contents, Molly made her final notes about the normal smear and put it away.

She had been nervous about today, wondering what it would be like working with Sherlock again, wondering what it would be like to spend time with him after this change in their relationship, but it was surprisingly easy. Even now, as she heard the gentle sounds of glass clinking and water running, the squeak and thunk of the lid of the biohazard bin, she could picture his movements around the lab without looking. It was just like old times, really, before they’d slept together, before the drugs. Molly was just securing a new slide in the clips when it hit her.

He’d said “friendship.”

Sherlock had looked her straight in the eye and promised not to risk their _friendship_. Molly stared through the eyepiece without seeing anything, frantically replaying everything he had said last night. That she was important, that she counted, that she mattered. That the items he brought her were a demonstration of the importance he placed on their—had he said _relationship_ or _friendship_? 

Molly’s heart felt like it was glugging down the drain with the solutions she heard Sherlock pouring out behind her. Today had felt like old times because it _was_ like old times, at least from Sherlock’s point of view. They were friends again, which meant she would give him access to the lab and the morgue. Their night together hadn’t meant anything to him after all; yesterday evening had simply been an elaborate means to get back in her good graces. But because she was a dreamer, because Molly Hooper was England’s most perpetual optimist, she needed to hear him say it.

“Sherlock? How would you describe our relationship?”

He licked his lip, clutching the neck of an Erlenmeyer flask. “I … thought we were friends?” 

He looked—and sounded—so tentative that Molly was quick to reassure him without thinking. Too quick. Too bright.

“Yes, of course! We’ve always been friends. Well, at least I think so. I mean, I’ve always thought so. I mean, I’ve always considered myself to be your friend, even when you didn’t—“ She was backing up, distancing herself from the pain. Her smile felt fake and must look even worse, judging from Sherlock’s expression. “It’s not that you haven’t been my friend, of course you have, and the basket was lovely, perfectly lovely—“

She stumbled into the stool and as usual, trying to fix her mistake only made it worse. As she grabbed for the stool, Molly felt the smooth chill of glass against the back of her hand and a pipette went rolling out of her reach over the far edge of the lab bench. 

“Dammit!” 

The tears she’d been fighting sprang to her eyes.

“It’s just a bit of glass,” Sherlock said, tearing a page off today’s theatre schedule to sweep up the fragments. “Hardly worth crying over.”

Molly’s eyes widened, then she turned. “I’m going to get some crisps do you want anything?” she said in a rush. She’d already started walking for the door, her lab coat billowing behind her with the briskness of her step. “Never mind, I know you don’t.” 

Sherlock stared after her, wondering what he’d missed.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early post because it's my four-year anniversary over at fanfiction.net. I've gone ahead and marked this complete but will post an outtake on Wednesday.

Molly had just laid the bone saw aside when Sherlock announced himself.

“Oh, Sherlock!”

She smiled at him through her face shield and picked up the rib retractor. He walked around the table to face her so she could continue her work.

“Are you still interested in a patient with heterochromia iridum?” Molly asked.

“Yes!”

She pointed a gloved finger at drawer four, and he turned to open it.

“Ovarian cancer,” Molly said softly. “Undiagnosed. She had three kids.” She selected a scalpel.

“Molly, there’s an even distribution of melanin.”

He hadn’t remarked on the unexpected blue iris in a woman with dark hair and olive skin, so he was looking at her left eye, which was brown. “Open the right one.”

“Complete heterochromia!”

“Thought you’d like that.” Molly plopped a lung onto the weighing pan.

“How long will she be here?” 

“I can hold the body until morning, but no longer.”

“Excellent.” He whipped a baggie out of each pocket. “I need to use the lab, yes?”

Molly had both hands and nearly her nose in the mediastinum, looking for the source of the shadow she’d seen on x-ray. “Put everything back where you found it,” she said absently.

“You too,” Sherlock said.

By the time Molly concluded the abnormality she’d observed was a thickening of the tracheal cartilage and processed the cheeky reply, Sherlock was already out the door. She shook her head. _That man_.

She was glad he had shown up today. Mrs. Kostas’s autopsy was yesterday, but Molly hadn’t notified Sherlock of the presence of a patient who met his inclusion criteria because—well, _because_. The woman in Molly wanted to wait and see if he would come back on his own, but the scientist in her had argued against the lost opportunity of a rare specimen, probably not seen again for years. Molly was relieved he had taken the decision out of her hands.

But she had made a decision about Sherlock. After consuming the better part of a Smarties sharing bag single-handedly and receiving a stern talking-to from her reflection, Molly had concluded she had three choices: she could run, leave St. Bart’s and London and go somewhere Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be part of her life, much less her heart; she could stay and carry on, hoping that someday Sherlock would want all of her; or she could listen to the man, accept reality, and make her own future with someone else.

She loved London. She had always loved it, ever since she first stepped onto the platform at St. Pancras as a green eighteen year old. She loved St. Bart’s, with its history and architecture and challenging cases. She loved the energy of a teaching hospital and the prestige she enjoyed as a member of its staff. She could leave Bart’s without leaving London, but there was nothing wrong with her job. She enjoyed the actual work with Sherlock and at least here, she could see him. Know he was okay. Have his friendship, at least. Molly had lived without Sherlock for two years, and that was more than enough time to convince her she never wanted to do it by choice. No, her whole life was here, and despite what some people might think, it was a good life. Molly wasn’t leaving Bart’s, or London, or Sherlock.

But that was the easy decision.

Sherlock had come to her; they hadn’t fallen into bed together by accident or chance, he had chosen to come to her, Molly, and then even after everything that passed between them, he chose to be friends. They’d had a chance—a perfect opportunity—to take something that was intended to be momentary and make it last, and Sherlock turned it down. Waiting for Sherlock could very well mean giving up on her dream of marriage and children and happily ever after, and after a long night of soul-searching, Molly had concluded she wasn’t willing to take that risk. She _did_ want to be married, she wanted children and a husband to raise them with, she wanted a house with a little garden and sticky floors and crayon drawings on the refrigerator. She didn’t know how she was going to accomplish that, much less how to resolve her feelings for Sherlock when she’d failed so many times before, but she knew she wanted to try. A good faith effort this time, not the passive drifting that had let a casual encounter turn into an engagement.

Molly was a dreamer, but she was no fool. If her choices were no Sherlock, no love, or Sherlock’s friendship and another man’s love, she’d take the friendship.

Definitely.


	16. Outtake Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This is an outtake** , specifically chapter nine from Sherlock's POV. Ideally I'd recommended rereading chapter eight, then this, then chapter ten for the full effect. This started as a writing exercise for me, to help me figure out Sherlock's feelings and inner conflict, but I ended up liking it and decided to share it. The deductions part is an excellent example of a little knowledge being a dangerous thing; don't take me too seriously there. 
> 
> For those who asked, yes, there will be a sequel--but not until after I finish the big HP project I'm working on. Those guys have been waiting ten months already.

Sherlock approached the morgue doors carefully this time, stopping directly in front of them before pushing with outstretched arms, allowing plenty of room for his nose. The doors gave under his touch and he strode through briskly, unsurprised to see Lestrade had already arrived since Molly had unlocked the door. And John was here too, excellent.

“Good, you’re all here. I have a very busy day—”

John turned around and Molly came into view. Sherlock froze, his brain refusing to do anything other than catalogue visual input. Abundant visual input. _No lab coat, dress—blue—navy. Square neckline that exposes her clavicles and some foldy-pleat thing under the bust that makes her look curvier than she—_

“The East End,” Molly said.

Sherlock finally looked at her face, and she met his gaze. Her hair was done up. He knew he was staring—Molly was giving him the even, patient look she wore whenever he stared at her—but it was several seconds before he could force his brain to actually _process_ the stimuli it was receiving.

“You’re teaching today.” Stupid, stupid! Of _course_ she was teaching, any idiot could see that. Molly didn’t dress like that for work, and she wouldn’t have a date at seven o’clock in the morning.

“Yes.”

He was having difficulty reconciling the facts despite the evidence of his own eyes. He had come here expecting (maybe a slightly angry) lab!Molly, not this—this _shapeshifter._

“But you worked all night.”

She was wearing concealer and foundation to hide the effects, and— Sherlock’s heart thudded—lipstick. Molly hadn’t worn lipstick in _ages_.

“It’s my job.”

The movement of her mouth caught his attention. It looked wet, the glossy shine making him wonder if the texture was smooth or sticky, if she would taste like the emollients and clays it contained.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “If you could just show us the body….”

Molly jumped. “Oh! Of course.”

She moved to the sink for gloves and came round the exam table in front of Sherlock, well inside his personal space. He inhaled as her head passed under his nose and was not disappointed— just the slightest hint of formaldehyde overpowered by lemon verbena. All of Molly, not just her hair, had smelled like a citrus grove that night, the scent becoming stronger when her skin heated under his touch.

_She’s wearing heels._

He was already following her by the time he reached this conclusion, deduced not by looking at her feet but by watching the sway of her hips. Molly normally had a very functional gait with a short stride dictated by her height and, despite her gender, minimal pelvic movement with her foot placement approximating the width of her hips. This was different: rotation of the hip forward and inward, her feet not directly in front of each other but on either side of a straight line. In fact, she walked like she’d just—

_No, no, no, we are NOT remembering Molly doing_ ** _that_** _._ _We can’t remember it, we deleted it_ —

Molly bent forward to pull back the sheet, arching her back slightly for balance. Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets and brought them forward.

He loved this coat for so _many_ reasons.

His right hand touched his magnifying glass and the now-exposed corpse reminded him of his purpose. He latched onto the distraction (no, wait—Molly is the distraction, the corpse is The Case), listening to Molly and Lestrade’s conversation on cause of death with half an ear.

Until his elbow bumped something soft. And round. And not good _._

Still bent over the body on the table, he looked up past her breasts ( _don’t stare, do not stare_ ) to find Molly looking down at him.

“Oh, ex-excuse me. I just need—“ He indicated the lower half of the woman’s body, careful to keep the gesture within his own frame.

That really was an incredible dress.

“Of course,” Molly said politely. But she didn’t move. Most unusual, an unaccommodating Molly. But apparently not today.

Sherlock straightened, stretched one long leg to the side to step away from her, then moved a full stride forward before returning to the table, looking over his shoulder to ensure ample space remained between them before resuming his examination, again only half-listening to Molly.

“… tread pattern.”

“It will be a workman’s boot, such as those worn in construction,” he said without looking up.

Mycroft was right—this woman’s death had nothing to do with his operation. “Her assailant is someone she knows intimately, a husband or lover.” Sherlock snapped his magnifying glass closed and returned it to his pocket. “One hundred seventy-seven point … eight centimeters,” he decided, picturing the woman upright and estimating the angle of the blows. “About thirteen stone, a construction worker, probably a welder. They lived by the water, though not in any structure you or I would consider housing. She was a seamstress, not a very good one—”

“Sherlock!” Molly protested.

“Look at her hands,” he said, grabbing one of them and turning it over.

“Any sharp instrument could have made those punctures.”

“Not anything,” Sherlock corrected. “A thin, pointed object. A needle or pin.”

“Her vitreous glucose was three hundred and five,” Molly said flatly.

Sherlock dropped the hand. “She’s diabetic?”

Molly didn’t dignify the obvious with an answer. She stood on the other side of the exam table with her arms crossed (which also made her breasts look fuller— _a factual observation, nothing more_ , Sherlock assured himself) and her back rigid, chin jutted out like when she was trying to be firm with him about cleaning up after himself or informing her when he used the last of a solvent or something equally tedious.

“Look,” Sherlock said, circling the table to the foot, eager to banish this cold, frowning version of his pathologist, and what better way to do that than by impressing her with his brilliance? “Her skin and toenails are rife with fungus, but not ordinary tinea pedis. Indicative of chronic exposure to moisture, and while some people have excessive diaphoresis even in the winter, she has no more bromhidrosis than one would expect of someone with her lack of hygiene habits.”

He felt his nose turn up without his permission, and Molly’s blank expression hardened at his criticism of the victim. He’d have to do better.

“Microscopic examination of a scrape would confirm mitosporic lotic fungi, thus, they lived near the Thames. It’s too cold for her to be walking along the river or its tidal pools, and she has no calluses or abrasions to indicate she’s been barefoot, meaning her home is in poor condition indeed. A reasonable conclusion supported by her general malnutrition as evidenced by her weight, skin, and hair.” Sherlock picked up a hank of the woman’s limp, stringy hair and let it fall, finishing it all off with a smile.

Molly raised one eyebrow. “Anything else?”

Sherlock looked away from her, disappointed. John and Greg were close together in hushed conversation. That couldn’t be good.

“Er, no. You already know about the abuse—multiple relationships, starting in childhood.”

“As you said, she’s been repeatedly abused her entire life. At least one of her boyfriends was fond of the torso—bruises don’t show there, you see.” Her voice was tight, her words clipped, and Sherlock began to suspect not all her anger was directed at him. As she talked, Molly crossed the woman’s left ankle over her right, moved her left arm over her stomach, and with a practiced heave on shoulder and hip, turned nine stone of dead weight, exposing a scar on the woman’s back.

“She took multiple blows to the upper abdomen and flank through the course of her life, including a knife wound. Repeated trauma to the pancreas is probably the cause of her diabetes, as her body mass certainly isn’t a risk factor. And if you’d taken a proper look at her hands and not just her feet, not only would you have seen her dominant right hand is also callused from frequent punctures, which you wouldn’t get with needlework, but there are multiple small burns as well. Nothing uniform like a cigarette butt or a poker, so not part of her abuse. That combined with the corneal inflammation from inconsistent use of protective gear means _she’s_ the welder, not her assailant. Well, I can’t prove that he’s not just from her body, but….”

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. It was always _something._

“I need to see the crime scene,” he announced, walking away from Molly. “Molly can tell you my observations.” He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it, but … it had hardly been the best of mornings.

“Molly can tell you _her_ observations because _she’s_ the one who did the postmortem.” He felt the sting of her words on his back. “I’m not your assistant, Sherlock.”

Sherlock spun on his heel before he even realized he’d recognized the sound of peeling rubber. He hadn’t made her that mad, had he? Not pee-in-a-jar mad, surely. He watched closely, but even after Molly threw her gloves in the bin, she made no move to approach him. In fact, she didn’t even look at him.

Sherlock’s hand twitched with the need to reach up and rub his stinging face.

“Would it have killed you to tell her she looked nice today?” John’s voice interrupted the sense memory.

“I have no doubt you and Gary covered that quite thoroughly before I arrived.” Sherlock glared at the older man, even though he knew it was his own fault he couldn’t pay Molly a compliment anymore. She didn’t believe him.

Repeated manipulation will do that to a relationship.

_How many times do I have to tell you, Sherlock? Caring is not_ —

He mentally stuffed Mycroft with his own tie.

“I was here for a case.” Sherlock began buttoning his coat.

John rolled his eyes. “Multi-task, Sherlock. I’ve seen you charm women out of their flats, their cars, their bloody shoes! Yet you won’t pay Molly one simple compliment. And what was that bit about her telling us your observations? She’s a _pathologist_ , one of the best in London! You can’t just dismiss her like that.”

John’s dig at what Sherlock knew to be an inexcusable mistake—Molly was _the_ best, it’s why he worked with her—was the final straw.

“Just because you’re not getting any sex is no reason to take it out on the rest of us,” Sherlock said haughtily, snugging his scarf against his throat. “How old is Josephine now, five weeks? Less than seven days to go, Doctor.”

John clenched his jaw. “I’m going to work. You’re on your own.”

Even with nearly four decades of practice, it was hard to hide how much that hurt.

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